Paola went entirely translucent, her hand violently dropping from Diego’s arm as if it had been burned. “No… no, that’s impossible. Laura’s family is from the outer provinces! They’re just honest school teachers!”
“My mother’s family didn’t just teach, Paola; they established the master educational trust fund that bankrolls your entire corporate logistics firm,” I explained smoothly, pulling a sleek, gold-embossed leather folder from my handbag and dropping it carelessly onto the medical tray, right over Diego’s minimum-alimony divorce papers.
“Open it, Diego,” I commanded softly.
Diego’s hand shook so violently he could barely lift the flap. His eyes scanned the first document—a certified, legally notarized copy of his true post-vasectomy forensic laboratory results, intercepted by my private investigators three weeks ago.
“What… what is this?” Diego stammered, his face violently draining of all color, leaving his skin a sickly, hollow shade of gray. “The clinic said my count was zero!”
