Chapter 1 - The Midnight Call
The bass vibrated through the reinforced glass of the private booth at El Cielo, Monterrey’s most exclusive club in San Pedro Garza García. Outside, the night was crisp and still, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of silver tequila, expensive leather, and imported cigars.
Mateo leaned back into the velvet lounge, a smug, heavy smile plastered across his face. On his lap sat Valeria, her fingers tracing the collar of his designer shirt. Surrounding them were his usual court of sycophants—men who laughed a second too loud at his jokes and women who pretended to care about his real estate investments.
“You’re a legend, Mateo,” one of his associates shouted over the pulse of the music. “Selling the Santa Catarina project and becoming a dad in the same month? You’re untouchable!”
Mateo lifted his glass of mezcal, feeling the burn in his throat. “Untouchable, brother. When you know how to manage your assets, everything runs like clockwork.”
On the glass table in front of him, his phone lit up.
Wife.
The bright screen briefly cut through the dim amber light of the booth.
Valeria rolled her eyes, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Baby, are you seriously not going to answer? She’s been calling all night. That sound is getting annoying.”
Mateo glanced at the screen. The counter indicated nine missed calls. He chuckled—a cold, dismissive sound that was instantly echoed by his friends.
“Leave her,” he said, taking another slow sip. “She’s just being dramatic.”
“Ten calls in thirty minutes?” Valeria teased, running her acrylic nails down his chest. “She’s keeping you on a very short leash.”
“You know how women get when they’re pregnant,” Mateo said, turning to his friends with a wide, confident grin. “Emotional about everything. She probably wants tacos at midnight or wants me to rub her swollen feet. If you indulge them once, they never stop demanding.”
“So needy,” Valeria whispered, sliding her arm around his neck.
Mateo picked up the phone. Without looking at the glowing display, he hit the red button, swiped the setting to airplane mode, and tossed the device onto the leather cushions at the back of the booth like a piece of trash.
“To my last night of freedom before becoming a father!” he roared, raising his glass high.
The booth erupted into cheers, glasses clinked, and the music swallowed every lingering thought of his home.
Seven miles away, in the silent, echoey grand hall of a modern mansion nestled in the hills of San Pedro, Camila lay motionless on the white Carrara marble floor.
She was eight months pregnant with a boy they had already named Leo.
An hour earlier, she had woken up with a parched throat and a mild headache. She had stepped out of the master bedroom, holding her belly with one hand, taking small, cautious steps toward the kitchen. But on the third step down the grand floating staircase, a sharp, sudden dizziness hit her. Her knee buckled. Her hand reached for the sleek glass railing, but her fingers slipped on the smooth surface.
The fall was short, violent, and agonizing.
She had tumbled down the last eight steps, landing heavily on her side.
Now, she was trapped on the cold stone floor. A deep, agonizing pain throbbed at the base of her spine, but worse was the terrifying tightness spreading across her abdomen. She could feel her baby moving erratically, pitching in distress.
“Mateo…” she gasped, her voice barely a thread in the dark house.
Her phone lay two inches from her fingertips, its glass screen webbed with cracks. Shaking, her skin soaked in cold sweat, she reached for it.
Calling Mateo...
Rejected.
Calling Mateo...
Voicemail.
A heavy, bitter tear slipped down her pale cheek, mixing with the dust on the marble floor. The pain flared again—a brutal, tearing sensation that threatened to pull her into unconsciousness.
The house was a fortress. The floor-to-ceiling windows were double-paned, the perimeter was ringed with high stone walls, and the heavy iron gate at the entrance was locked. No ambulance could get through the estate gates unless someone on the inside pressed the release button or provided the master security code.
Mateo held the master codes. Mateo was the only one with immediate access.
Camila stared at her cracked phone screen, her breathing shallow and ragged. She realized, with a wave of sickening clarity, that the man who had promised to protect her was currently ignoring her agony. She was dying in the middle of luxury.
With trembling fingers, she unlocked her phone again. Her vision was blurring, dark spots swimming across her field of sight. She opened her contacts and scrolled past the names of acquaintances, high-society friends who would only gossip, and relatives who lived hours away.
Her thumb hovered over a name she had not dialed in five years.
Alejandro.
Mateo’s former business partner. The man Mateo had betrayed, ousted from their firm, and banned Camila from ever contacting again. Mateo hated Alejandro with an obsessive, bitter passion, largely because after the split, Alejandro had built an empire that made Mateo’s wealth look like pocket change.
Camila had no other choice. She tapped the screen.
It rang once.
“Camila?” A deep, grave voice answered instantly, crisp and alert despite the hour. “Is everything okay? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Alejandro…” Camila sobbed, her strength failing. “I fell… the stairs… there’s blood… please help me… Mateo won't answer… the baby…”
The line went completely dead for less than a second. When Alejandro’s voice returned, the calm demeanor was gone, replaced by a terrifying, iron command.
“CAMILA?! Where are you? Stay with me! I’m coming right now—I’m bringing my personal medical team. Do not close your eyes. Talk to me, Camila. Please, keep talking!”
The phone slipped from Camila’s numb fingers, clattering against the marble.
She couldn't speak anymore. She dragged her weak hand across the cold floor and placed her palm over her stomach.
May you like
“I’m sorry, my love,” she whispered into the dark, empty house, her eyes fluttering shut.
And in the private lounge of El Cielo, Mateo downed another shot of mezcal, completely oblivious to the fact that the clock had just run out on his life.
