Chapter 6 - Healing the Scars
With Beatriz gone, the villa felt lighter, as if a toxic fog had finally lifted from its halls. But the true work had only just begun.
Over the next few weeks, my entire focus shifted away from real estate developments and multi-million-euro acquisitions. My empire could wait. My daughter could not.
I hired a specialized child psychologist from Madrid, Dr. Elena Vance—no relation to my lawyer—who specialized in severe trauma recovery. Every afternoon, Isabella and Dr. Elena sat in the sunlit conservatory, drawing, talking, and slowly breaking down the invisible walls of fear that Beatriz had built around my daughter's mind.
I spent every spare minute by Isabella's side. We baked cookies in the kitchen—a place she had previously only known as a site of punishment. We planted flowers in the garden where she had once dragged heavy garbage bags. We played board games in the living room until she laughed out loud—a sound I had missed desperately during those long months in Dubai.
One afternoon, as we sat together on the back patio eating fresh fruit, Isabella looked up from her sketchbook.
"Dad?" she asked softly.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"Are we ever going back to how it was before?"
I set my teacup down on the table and reached across, taking her hand. The blisters on her palms had healed, leaving only faint, fading pink scars.
"No, Isabella," I said gently. "We aren't going back to how it was before. Because from now on, things are going to be much better. You will never have to worry about chores you shouldn't be doing. You will never have to be scared in your own home. And I am never, ever going away for that long again."
Isabella smiled—a real, unforced smile that reached all the way to her eyes. She leaned over and hugged my waist tightly. "I love you, Dad."
"I love you too, Isabella. More than all the properties in Spain."
Later that evening, after Isabella had drifted off to sleep, Mateo called me with an update on the legal front.
"Declan, the preliminary hearing went through without a hitch," Mateo reported over the encrypted line. "Beatriz’s high-priced defense lawyers tried to argue cultural misunderstandings and strict parenting norms, but the judge took one look at the security logs and threw their motion out of court. Her financial access has been completely severed, and the criminal indictment for child labor exploitation and abuse is locked in."
"Good," I said, looking out through the study window toward the quiet, peaceful garden. "Let her face the consequences of what she did."
"What about the civil divorce settlement?" Mateo asked.
"Give her a standard one-bedroom apartment in Málaga, a modest monthly stipend so she doesn't starve, and not a single cent more," I instructed. "She wanted to live like a parasite, let her see what it’s like to survive on the bare minimum."
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"Done," Mateo replied. "By the way, your corporate board in Madrid wanted to know when you'll be returning to the office. The new hotel complex acquisition in Valencia is waiting for your signature."
"Tell them it can wait another month," I said firmly. "My real estate portfolio is valuable, Mateo. But my daughter is priceless."
