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My fiancé had just hit me and wrecked the car my father cherished as a sacred keepsake, yet he remained calm enough to look my father straight in the eye and say, "Lena lost control." But he didn't know my father had seen his bruised knuckles; and when Dad asked who had made me bleed, I decided not to protect him for another second. / Chapter 6 / 10

Chapter 6 - A New Horizon

Three months passed. The legal proceedings against Julian moved swiftly, transformed into an open-and-shut case thanks to the irrefutable video evidence and the financial records Dad had weaponized against the Vale family. Stripped of his wealth, abandoned by his high-society friends, and facing up to five years in a federal penitentiary, Julian’s arrogance finally shattered completely. His defense attorney tried to push for a plea deal, but the District Attorney’s office, fueled by the relentless pressure of the Ortiz legal team, refused every offer.

During those three months, I focused entirely on my own healing. I started seeing a therapist who specialized in trauma recovery, slowly dismantling the mental chains Julian had left behind. I returned to my marketing firm, securing a promotion that Julian had previously tried to block out of fear that I would outshine him.

One Saturday afternoon, I walked back down into the sanctuary of the garage.

The space looked different now. The oil stains on the floor had been scrubbed clean, and a brand-new set of bright LED shop lights illuminated every corner. In the center sat Uncle Mateo’s 1974 roadster.

It wasn't quite finished—the silver paint on the passenger side was still curing, and the interior dashboard was bare—but the chassis had been straightened, the engine rebuilt to purr like a wildcat, and Mateo’s old driving gloves rested once more on the freshly polished dashboard.

Dad was standing under the hood, tightening a bolt on the alternator with a socket wrench. He wiped his greasy hands on a red shop rag as he heard me walk in.

“What do you think?” Dad asked, stepping back to admire the machine.

“It looks incredible, Dad,” I said, running a hand gently over the smooth, newly painted fender. “Almost better than before.”

“Almost,” Dad agreed with a rare, genuine grin. “We’re missing one thing.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy brass key ring—the original keys to the roadster that Mateo had carried until his final day. He tossed them through the air toward me.

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“Your uncle always said that car belonged to whoever had the strongest spirit in the family,” Dad said quietly, leaning against the fender. “I think he’d want you to take her out for the maiden voyage once the paperwork clears next week.”

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