“That wasn’t me,” Patricia said, her voice growing frantic. “Someone hacked my laptop. It must have been one of the employees.”

“The camera shows you typing on your laptop at three in the morning,” my father said. “In my study. Using my private network key.”

He tapped his phone screen again.

A new document appeared on the wall monitor.

It was a bank authorization form with Patricia’s digital signature.

Next to it was a log of the IP address used to send the document.

The IP address matched the mansion’s private secure line.

“Ramiro spent the last twelve hours tracing every single keystroke,” my father said.

Patricia’s breathing was shallow and fast.

She looked around the room, realizing she was completely cornered.

The silent air in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Outside, the wind brushed the branches of the oak trees against the windowpane.

Inside, the only sound was the low hum of the electronic screens.

“Where is Ramiro?” Patricia asked suddenly, her eyes darting toward the door.

“He is taking care of the final details,” my father said.

“What details?” Patricia asked, her voice cracking.