CHAPTER 1 — THE PRESCRIPTION IN HER NAME
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The emergency-room corridor seemed to hold its breath.
Ricardo stood beside the doctor, staring at Valeria.
She stood beneath the fluorescent lights with her arms folded tightly across her chest.
For the first time in years, she looked small.
Not weak.
Valeria Galván had never been weak.
But frightened.
Deeply frightened.
Ricardo had seen that expression only once before.
The day her father had died.
And now he was seeing it again.
Because of their son.
“Valeria.”
His voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
She looked at him.
“Where did you get that medication?”
“I already told you. I don't know.”
“You said it was a mistake.”
“It could be.”
Ricardo held up the plastic evidence bag.
The bottle shifted inside it.
“You want me to believe a prescription under your name somehow ended up inside our seven-year-old son's body by accident?”
Valeria's lips parted.
No answer came.
The doctor cleared his throat.
“Mr. Galván, we need to finish the toxicology screening before we draw conclusions.”
Ricardo nodded.
“I understand.”
His eyes never left Valeria.
“But I want every test.”
“You'll have them.”
“Every blood test. Every scan. Every medical record.”
“Of course.”
“And I want the hospital to preserve everything.”
The doctor studied him for a moment.
“That's already standard procedure.”
Ricardo nodded.
“Good.”
Valeria stepped forward.
“Ricardo, you're turning this into something it isn't.”
He finally looked at her.
“Our son is in an emergency room.”
“He has anxiety.”
“He has injuries.”
“He fell.”
“The doctor just told us the injuries may have happened repeatedly.”
Valeria's face tightened.
“You don't know that.”
“No.”
Ricardo's voice hardened.
“But the doctor does.”
She looked away.
That tiny movement told Ricardo more than words could have.
Something was wrong.
Something had been wrong for a long time.
He had simply been too far away to see it.
Three months.
The number kept repeating inside Ricardo's mind.
Three months since he'd left Mexico.
Three months of business meetings in Madrid, New York, and São Paulo.
Three months of flights.
Three months of contracts.
Three months of trusting the woman who had once promised she would protect their son with her life.
He remembered the last night before he left.
Diego had followed him through the house carrying a stuffed astronaut.
“Are you really going?”
Ricardo had crouched beside him.
“I'll be back before you know it.”
“How many sleeps?”
Ricardo smiled.
“Maybe ninety.”
Diego had frowned.
“That's a lot.”
“It'll go fast.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Then Diego had hugged him.
Hard.
Ricardo remembered the warmth of his son's small body.
He remembered the smell of his shampoo.
He remembered Diego whispering something into his jacket.
“I love you, Daddy.”
Ricardo had smiled.
“I love you more.”
Then he'd left.
That was the last time he'd seen the real Diego.
Or perhaps—
The last time he'd seen the Diego he thought he knew.
A nurse opened the emergency-room door.
“Mr. Galván?”
Ricardo immediately stepped forward.
“Yes?”
“You can see him now.”
His heart tightened.
“Is he awake?”
“Yes.”
“Can I take him home?”
The nurse's expression softened.
“Not yet.”
Ricardo nodded.
“Of course.”
Valeria remained behind.
Ricardo noticed.
He looked at her.
“Are you coming?”
She hesitated.
“I need to make a phone call.”
Ricardo stared at her.
“To whom?”
“My attorney.”
“Why?”
Valeria's expression changed.
“Because you're accusing me of hurting our son.”
“I haven't accused you of anything.”
“You looked at me like I was a criminal.”
Ricardo's voice dropped.
“I looked at you like a father looking at the woman who was supposed to keep his child safe.”
Valeria flinched.
Then she turned away.
Ricardo walked into the room.
Diego looked impossibly small beneath the hospital blankets.
His skin was pale.
There were wires attached to his chest.
An IV ran into his tiny arm.
His eyes were closed.
Ricardo approached slowly.
He pulled a chair beside the bed.
Then he sat.
For several seconds, he couldn't speak.
He simply watched his son breathe.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Each breath seemed to prove that Diego was still there.
Still alive.
Still his.
Ricardo reached for his hand.
The boy's fingers moved.
“Daddy?”
Ricardo swallowed hard.
“I'm here.”
Diego opened his eyes.
For a moment, there was fear in them.
Then recognition.
Then something else.
Relief.
“Are you mad?”
Ricardo's heart broke.
“Mad?”
Diego nodded.
“Because I cried.”
Ricardo leaned closer.
“Diego, listen to me.”
The boy looked at him.
“You never have to be afraid of crying with me.”
Diego's lower lip trembled.
Ricardo carefully brushed his hair away from his forehead.
“You never have to pretend you're okay.”
Diego looked toward the door.
His entire body stiffened.
Ricardo followed his gaze.
Valeria was standing outside the room.
Watching.
Diego immediately lowered his eyes.
Ricardo noticed.
Again.
That same reaction.
Fear.
Automatic.
Unconscious.
Ricardo leaned closer.
“Diego.”
The boy looked back.
“Did someone hurt you?”
Silence.
Diego's eyes filled with tears.
Ricardo kept his voice gentle.
“You can tell me anything.”
The boy swallowed.
“Will she hear?”
Ricardo's blood turned cold.
“Who?”
Diego glanced toward the door.
“Mom.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“No.”
He lowered his voice.
“She won't hear.”
Diego hesitated.
Then whispered:
“Sometimes she says I'm bad.”
Ricardo's jaw tightened.
“Why?”
“Because I cry.”
“That doesn't make you bad.”
“She says good boys don't make problems.”
Ricardo closed his eyes for half a second.
“What kind of problems?”
Diego's fingers curled around the blanket.
“When I say no.”
“To what?”
The boy didn't answer.
“Diego.”
A tear slid down his cheek.
“She says I have to take my medicine.”
Ricardo's entire body went rigid.
“What medicine?”
“The sleepy one.”
His eyes moved toward the hallway.
“She says I fight too much when I'm awake.”
Ricardo felt something inside him crack.
“Who gives it to you?”
Diego whispered:
“Mom.”
Ricardo stared at his son.
The room suddenly felt too small.
Too cold.
Too bright.
He forced himself to remain calm.
“Does anyone else give it to you?”
Diego shook his head.
“Sometimes…”
He stopped.
“Sometimes who?”
The boy's eyes filled with fear.
“Mr. Esteban.”
Ricardo frowned.
“Who is Esteban?”
Diego immediately shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“You just said Mr. Esteban.”
“He comes at night.”
Ricardo's pulse accelerated.
“What does he do?”
Diego looked toward the door again.
Then whispered:
“He checks the locks.”
Ricardo's expression hardened.
“Which locks?”
“All of them.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
“Diego, have you seen him hurt anyone?”
The boy became completely silent.
Ricardo understood the answer before Diego spoke.
“He doesn't like when I talk.”
Ricardo's hands began to tremble.
“What happens when you talk?”
Diego looked down.
“He tells Mom.”
“And then?”
The boy's voice became almost inaudible.
“Then I get sleepy.”
Ricardo stood.
He had to.
If he stayed seated, he wasn't sure what he would do.
He walked to the window.
His reflection stared back at him.
A father.
A businessman.
A man who had spent years believing money could protect the people he loved.
Yet his own son had been drugged inside his own house.
For three months.
Ricardo turned toward the door.
Valeria was gone.
He stepped into the hallway.
“Where is she?”
The nurse looked confused.
“Who?”
“My ex-wife.”
“She left a few minutes ago.”
Ricardo pulled out his phone.
He called her.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then a message appeared.
VALERIA: We need to talk. Alone.
Ricardo stared at the screen.
He typed one sentence.
WHERE ARE YOU?
Three dots appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
At home.
Ricardo's eyes narrowed.
He looked through the glass toward Diego.
His son was watching him.
Ricardo slipped the phone into his pocket.
He would not leave Diego alone.
Not again.
Not tonight.
Two hours later, the first preliminary medical report arrived.
The doctor found Ricardo in the family consultation room.
“We need to discuss the results.”
Ricardo stood.
“What did you find?”
The doctor placed a folder on the table.
“There are multiple injuries.”
Ricardo stared at him.
“Explain.”
“Some appear older than others.”
“How old?”
“We can't establish exact dates yet.”
“Months?”
The doctor hesitated.
“Possibly.”
Ricardo felt his stomach drop.
“Three months?”
“I can't say that yet.”
“But the injuries aren't all recent.”
“No.”
Ricardo closed his eyes.
Then opened them.
“What about the medication?”
The doctor looked down at the report.
“The sedative level is not consistent with a single accidental exposure.”
Ricardo's blood ran cold.
“How many times?”
“We need a complete toxicology panel.”
“But?”
The doctor looked directly at him.
“There are indications this may have happened repeatedly.”
Ricardo slowly sat down.
Repeatedly.
His son had not simply been hurt.
Someone had been maintaining a system.
Drugging him.
Hiding injuries.
Controlling what he said.
Controlling when he slept.
And controlling what Ricardo saw during video calls.
This wasn't chaos.
It was organized.
The thought terrified him more than anything else.
Because organized cruelty required planning.
And planning required a reason.
“What about his nutrition?”
The doctor sighed.
“That's another concern.”
“How long?”
“Several weeks at minimum.”
Ricardo stared at the floor.
Several weeks.
He had been sending money.
He had been paying for food.
Medical care.
Private tutors.
Security.
Everything.
So where had it gone?
He looked up.
“Doctor.”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“If a child is being given sedatives regularly…”
The doctor waited.
“Could that affect his memory?”
“Yes.”
“Could someone use that to keep him from remembering?”
The doctor's expression became serious.
“Sedatives can affect memory and behavior, depending on the drug, dose, and frequency. But we shouldn't assume intent without evidence.”
Ricardo nodded.
“I understand.”
The doctor closed the folder.
“One more thing.”
Ricardo looked up.
“We found bruising in places that would be unusual for ordinary childhood accidents.”
Ricardo's face hardened.
“Where?”
The doctor told him.
Ricardo didn't speak.
He couldn't.
Because now he understood.
The falls had never made sense.
The excuses had never made sense.
And Diego's fear of sitting down had never been anxiety.
It had been memory.
His son's body remembered what his mind was trying to forget.
At 2:17 a.m., Ricardo walked into the hospital chapel.
He didn't pray often.
He didn't even know what to say.
So he sat in the darkness.
His phone vibrated.
One message.
From an unknown number.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED AWAY.
Ricardo stared at it.
A second message appeared.
YOUR SON WAS SAFE UNTIL YOU CAME BACK.
His blood ran cold.
Then a third message.
GO BACK TO SPAIN.
Ricardo slowly stood.
He took screenshots.
Then forwarded them to his security chief.
Another message arrived.
This one contained a photograph.
Ricardo opened it.
His breath stopped.
It was Diego.
Taken inside the Galván mansion.
At night.
The boy was standing in the upstairs hallway.
Behind him was a closed door.
And beside him stood a man Ricardo had never seen before.
A tall man in a dark suit.
The photograph was clearly taken from inside the house.
Ricardo zoomed in.
On the man's wrist was a distinctive silver watch.
Ricardo recognized it.
He had seen it before.
At his own house.
On the wrist of one of Valeria's closest friends.
A man named Esteban.
Ricardo's fingers tightened around the phone.
The screen went dark.
For several seconds, he stood completely still.
Then he whispered:
“Who the hell are you?”
Behind him, the chapel door slowly opened.
Ricardo turned.
A hospital security officer stood there.
“Mr. Galván?”
“Yes?”
“There is someone asking to see you.”
“Who?”
The guard hesitated.
“She says she used to work for your family.”
Ricardo's eyes narrowed.
“Her name?”
The guard looked at his clipboard.
“Marisol Herrera.”
Ricardo froze.
He knew that name.
Marisol had been the family's head housekeeper for almost twelve years.
Until Valeria had fired her.
Three weeks after Ricardo left for Europe.
Ricardo stared at the guard.
“Where is she?”
“Waiting downstairs.”
Ricardo looked once toward the chapel altar.
Then toward the hospital corridor where his son lay.
Something told him the night had only just begun.
He followed the guard downstairs.
And when he saw Marisol's face, he immediately knew one thing.
May you like
She hadn't come to ask for her job back.
She had come because she was afraid.
