My personal phone, the one I had kept turned off, began to vibrate on the cushion beside me.

The screen displayed Alvaro’s name.

I hesitated for a moment, then slid my thumb across the screen to answer.

“Inés,” his voice came through the speaker, tight and sharp.

“Alvaro,” I said calmly.

“Where are the children?” he demanded.

“They are safe,” I said. “They are asleep.”

“You think you can run from me?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low, menacing register.

“I am not running,” I said. “I have simply relocated.”

“I have already instructed the banks to lock you out,” he said. “You have nothing, Inés.”

“You will not have a single euro to your name by midnight,” he added.

I let out a quiet, slow breath.

“You should call your lawyers again, Alvaro,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“I have retained Alejandro Vela,” I said.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

I could hear the faint sound of wind against glass on his end, likely from his office high above Madrid.