Chapter 26

The Rodriguez home was tense as the silence thickened to make the very weight of the shifting balance in grudges both old and alliances new heavy even upon its walls. Beatrice stood very still at the door, inside their big estate home, gazing at what faced her. Evening air that fanned slightly stood still around the moment filled with energy - undecipherable.

"Who-who are you?" The voice of Beatrice barely rose above a whisper, yet held in it years of unanswered questions.

The man standing on the threshold didn't say a word. His eyes, dark as coal, roamed over her in a slow, deliberative look that weighed her with quiet precision, as if he had seen it all before. He didn't say anything; he didn't have to; his presence was enough to convey the gravity of the situation.

Behind him, the merest movement might be glimpsed—another figure, shrouded, a shape out of reach andrange of the porch light. Instantly, she felt the chill down her spine; she knew this was no ordinary caller, and though faint unease tugged at her, she did not show it.

"Do you know who we are?" Beatrice's voice returned to its usual haughty sharpness. She had worked too long to let anyone see her falter. "You must know you're trespassing."

He stepped forward, the outlines of his form sharper in the light. The subtle smile that played upon his lips did nothing to ease the growing tension in her body. "I know exactly who you are, Beatrice," he said, the smooth tone, almost too smooth. "And I know exactly what you've been up to."

Inside the sprawling Wellington Holdings headquarters, Ronald sat behind his polished mahogany desk, the weight of his father's legacy weighing heavily upon his shoulders. He sat staring at the stack of paperwork in front of him, mindlessly flipping through the pages, his thoughts elsewhere. Events of late-Amelia's disappearance, the mounting pressure from the board, whispers of betrayal-pushed him to a breaking point.

The company was living on the edge, and he couldn't afford another mistake. But no matter how much he tried burying himself in the numbers, in the corporate strategy, his mind wandered back to her—Amelia. His heart tightened at the thought of her absence, the silence now that filled the places where her presence used to be.

His assistant came in without knocking, breaking his reverie.

Mr. Wellington," he began, her voice steady, though there was a flicker of concern in her eyes. "There's someone here to see you."

Ronald didn't look up. "Tell them to make an appointment."

"It's urgent," he replied. "It's. Mr. Raphael. He says it's important."

Ronald's posture stiffened, and for the first time in what felt like days, he looked up. The name Raphael stirred something within him-something he couldn't place.

"Send him in," he said, his voice revealing nothing of the turmoil he felt within.

Mr. Raphael strode into the office with an air of not giving a hoot about formalities anymore. He was dressed to perfection in a tailored suit, but in the way he walked, one felt an ease, experience, and authority emanated from him, for he had been part of those who started it-the man who worked shoulder to shoulder with Ronald's father to steer Wellington Holdings through the early years.

"Good to see you, Ronald," Raphael said, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Though I wish it were under better circumstances."

Ronald didn't say anything right away. He waved his hand toward the chair opposite his desk. "I assume you didn't come all this way for pleasantries."

Raphael leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs as he watched Ronald closely. "You've been struggling, haven't you? With the company. with everything."

Ronald clenched his jaw but said nothing. Raphael didn’t need him to confirm what was obvious.

“I’ve been here long enough to see the signs,” Raphael continued. “Wellington Holdings is in trouble. You’re sinking, and you’re too proud to admit it.”

Ronald’s hand tightened around the edge of his desk, but he remained silent. It was true. The company was struggling. His father’s legacy was beginning to crumble, and he didn’t know how to fix it. The weight of responsibility hung heavy around him, suffocating him with every breath.

“You’ve lost your way, Ronald,” Raphael said bluntly. “This. this isn’t what your father built.”

Ronald's eyes clouded, and he stood behind his desk. The message in his stance wasn't hard to read. "What do you want, Raphael?"

Raphael leaned forward, his eyes unyielding. "I want you to understand one thing: the company, this legacy, it's not just about you. It's about the people who built it. People like me. People who are watching you fail."

"You're threatening me?" Ronald's voice was low and menacing.

"I'm not threatening you," Raphael said, composed. "I'm throwing you a lifeline, here. You still can pull it back, Ronald. But you have to stop pretending you understand it all. You have to listen."

Ronald refused to utter a word; his mind raced on. He didn't want to hear this. He just couldn't fathom the very fact that bit by bit everything his dad fought so hard to manage was leaking between his hands. The fact confronted him very bluntly.

******

Back at the Rodriguez estate, Beatrice’s fingers trembled as she clutched the doorframe, trying to steady herself. The man on the doorstep hadn’t moved. His eyes remained locked on hers, cold and calculating.

“You still haven’t answered me,” the man said. His voice had a quiet menace to it, one that made Beatrice’s stomach churn. “We know what you’ve been hiding, Beatrice. And it’s time to make things right.”

Beatrice’s mind raced. This wasn’t just a random visitor. This was someone who knew too much—someone who had come to collect.

“Make things right?” Beatrice echoed, her voice cold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man’s gaze didn’t falter. “You will. Soon enough.”

He stepped closer, and for the first time in years, Beatrice felt the grip of fear coil in her chest.

The thick silence had barely waited for Beatrice to open her mouth before a voice sliced through it from the dark.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that, Beatrice."

Her heart jumped at this. Beatrice's head swerved sideways. The man standing on her stoop didn't seem the speaking type. Someone else had said that. But the tone, it sounded as well known as her own heartbeat.

A figure stepped into the doorway, their presence unmistakable, their silhouette dark against the dim porch light.

Beatrice's face had drained of color. She knew that voice.