He tapped his phone once more.

The screen split into four separate panels.

Each panel showed a different room in the mansion.

The master bedroom.

The kitchen.

The private library.

The lower level gallery.

In every single room, the large television screens were turning on automatically.

I could hear the faint echo of the video audio playing from the other side of the house.

It drifted up from the downstairs parlor.

It bounced off the marble walls of the grand foyer.

“What are you doing?” Patricia asked, her fingers gripping the edge of the glass table. “Are you showing this to the staff?”

“They deserve to see the truth,” I said.

“Be quiet, Daniela,” Patricia hissed, her polite facade slipping for a fraction of a second.

My father’s eyes narrowed.

He took one slow step toward her.

Patricia immediately stepped backward, her heel catching on the edge of the Persian rug.

She steadied herself, her hand trembling against her chest.

“Emiliano, we can talk about this privately,” she pleaded, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “We are getting married in three weeks. Think of the press. Think of your business.”