I went back to the kitchen and looked at the laptop.

The stock chart for Horizonte Capital was still frozen at forty-two percent down.

The market had closed for the day, but the after-hours trading indicators were already showing another drop.

It was a complete collapse.

The elite of La Moraleja would be scrubbing Alvaro’s name from their contact lists tonight.

The dinners, the charity galas, the business partnerships—all of it was gone in a single afternoon.

I picked up my glass of wine and took a slow sip.

It was a heavy Rioja, cold and slightly bitter.

The bathroom door opened, and Lucía walked back into the room.

Her face was flushed, and she had washed her hands.

She set her phone back on the sofa, but she did not sit down.

“We need to leave Barcelona,” she said.

“To go where?” I asked.

“Anywhere,” she said. “France. Italy. We can drive.”

“We cannot run, Lucía,” I said. “That makes us look guilty.”

“But I am not guilty,” she said. “You are the one who planned this.”

She stopped, realizing what she had just said.