“You don’t understand the market,” Alvaro said.

“I understand arithmetic,” Matthew replied. “And I understand that when the banks see what Inés just released to the regulators, they will call in every loan by nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Alvaro reached for his desk phone, but Matthew gently slid the receiver out of his reach.

“The lines are down, Alvaro,” Matthew said. “The servers are gone. There is nothing left to save.”

In our small room, my personal phone on the table began to vibrate.

The screen lit up with a notification from an encrypted messaging app.

It was an alert from an editor I knew at *El Mundo*.

Then another from *El País*.

“Inés,” Lucía said, pointing at my phone. “Look.”

I didn’t answer.

I kept my eyes on the video feed.

Alvaro was sinking into his leather chair, looking suddenly very old.

The sleek, untouchable billionaire of La Moraleja looked like a man who had walked into a glass wall at full speed.

“She planned this,” Alvaro whispered. “She planned this from the day she left.”

“She planned it long before that,” Matthew said.