Chapter 20 #3
“He stayed for months,” she continues. “Building. Planning. And we… we had a love affair.”
The words feel too big.
Too real.
I grip the phone tighter.
“I thought he would marry me,” she says.
There’s no bitterness in her voice.
Just truth.
“But he left.”
My heart drops.
“To Cancún. To build more. More hotels. More money. More life.”
Her voice cracks now.
“And he left me behind.”
I can’t breathe.
“And then…” she whispers, “I found out I was pregnant.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
“With you.”
My chest caves in.
All these years—
All the stories—
All the versions—
And this is the truth?
“He was tall,” she says suddenly, like she needs me to understand something. “Muy alto. Seis tres.”
Very tall. Six-three.
A shaky laugh escapes her.
“That’s why you’re tall for half-Mexican. Porque no eres solo mexicana, mija.”
Because you’re not only Mexican, sweetheart.
“You’re Spanish too.”
The world tilts.
“That’s why you jump the way you do,” she adds. “Why volleyball came easy. He gave you that.”
My hand trembles.
“Can I… should I tell him?” I whisper. “Does he know about me?”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end.
Then—
“No.”
The word is immediate.
Firm.
“I tried,” she says, her voice breaking now. “Llamé. Escribí cartas.”
I called. I wrote letters.
“He never answered.”
Silence.
“I don’t think he knows you exist.”
The words hit like a punch.
I stare straight ahead.
The park blurs.
Kids laughing somewhere.
Water moving.
Life continuing.
And I feel—
shattered.
Not because I don’t have a father.
I’ve lived my whole life without him.
But because—
I never knew this version of the story.
I was told he was nobody.
A worker.
A mistake.
A marriage that didn’t work.
Not—
this.
Not passion.
Not love.
Not a man who built empires and left my mother behind like she was nothing.
“But I gave you his name,” she says softly. “Cortés.”
The name lands differently now.
Heavier.
Bigger.
“Te di algo, mija.”
I gave you something, sweetheart.
I swallow hard.
“You gave me everything,” I whisper.
She doesn’t answer.
Because we both know that’s true.
We stay on the phone a little longer.
Talking about my brother.
My sister.
Small things.
Safe things.
Until the moment passes.
Until the weight settles just enough.
Then she has to go.
Always.
“Te amo,” she says.
I love you.
“I love you too, mamá.”
The line goes quiet.
I sit there.
Still.
The coffee’s gone cold in my hand.
The park feels different now.
Like everything shifted and didn’t ask permission.
I pull out my phone.
My fingers move before I can stop them.
Google.
I type it in.
Emmanuel Cortés.
Search.
Results flood the screen.
Images.
Articles.
Corporate profiles.
Luxury developments.
Spain.
Mexico.
Cancún.
Miami.
Hotels.
Glass towers.
Money.
Power.
And him.
Older now.
Gray at the temples.
Sharp jaw.
Dark eyes.
Tall.
Even in photos, you can tell.
Six-three.
Maybe more.
My stomach twists.
Because I see it.
In the structure.
In the eyes.
In something I can’t explain.
Me.
My pulse spikes.
Everything inside me—
the anger
the confusion
the loneliness
Tristan
Isa
Kane
the court
the pressure
the emptiness—
it all collides into one sharp, burning point.
He left her.
He left us.
Built his empire.
And never looked back.
My jaw tightens.
My fingers curl around the phone.
No.
Not anymore.
If he doesn’t know I exist—
that’s about to change.
I tap.
Find a number.
Corporate.
International.
Doesn’t matter.
My thumb hovers.
Just for a second.
Then I press call.
Because I’ve spent my whole life being the girl who works harder.
Who waits.
Who earns.
Who stays quiet.
And I’m done with that.
If Isa can go after what she wants—
If the world can move like it belongs to people who take—
Then so can I.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
My heart pounds.
Not fear.
ot hesitation.
Fire.
Because for the first time in days—
I don’t feel empty.
I feel purpose.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each ring stretches longer than it should, like the world is giving me one last chance to hang up and pretend I didn’t just blow my life open.
I don’t hang up.
I sit there on the bench, spine straight, fingers tight around my phone, the last heat of that Cuban coffee still sitting bitter on my tongue.
Fourth ring.
Then—
A click.
Silence.
And then a voice.
Male.
Calm. Polished. Older.
“Has reached the office of Emmanuel Cortés. Please leave a message.”
My breath catches.
That’s him.
That’s his voice.
My father.
I didn’t expect that to hit.
But it does.
Hard.
For a second, I freeze.
Everything I was going to say—gone.
My mouth dry.
My heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.
Say something.
Say something, Stella.
The beep cuts through the silence.
And I close my eyes.
Then I speak.
“Hola… Senor Cortés.”
My voice is steady.
Stronger than I feel.
“You don’t know who I am… pero yo sé quién es usted.”
But I know who you are.
I swallow.
Push through.
“You had a relationship with my mother. Hace más de veinte anos… en Valle de Bravo.”
More than twenty years ago… in Valle de Bravo.
My fingers tighten around the phone.
“She wrote to you. Te llamó.”
She called you.
“You never answered.”
The words land sharper now.
Less shaky.
More controlled.
“My name is Stella Cortéz.”
I let that sit.
Let him hear it.
Let him recognize it—or not.
“I’m still a Cortez.”
My voice hardens just slightly.
“I go to Stanford. Soy atleta de División Uno.”
I’m a Division One athlete.
“I’m an A student. I’m majoring in international business.”
A breath.
“I guess I get that from you.”
There’s something there.
Not soft.
Not angry.
Just… truth edged with something deeper.
“If you want to see me,” I continue, “you can look me up. Instagram. Twitter. Same name.”
My lips press together.
“You’ll see it.”
I hesitate.
Just for a second.
Then—
“I have your height. Your face.”
My voice lowers.
“My mother gave me your last name.”
The park around me feels distant now.
Muted.
Like this moment exists in its own space.
“If you want to come to California… we can do a DNA test.”
I shrug slightly, even though he can’t see me.
“Or not.”
Another breath.
This is the part.
The part that matters.
“I just thought you should know…”
My voice softens.
Not weak.
Not small.
Just real.
“…you have a daughter.”
The word hangs there.
Heavy.
Final.
I stare straight ahead.
At the flowers.
At the sunlight hitting the fountain.
At a life that just split into before and after.
“A daughter you should be damn proud of,” I add, switching fully into English now, my tone steady, un-shaking.
Then, softer—
“Me gustaría conocerte.”
I would like to meet you.
I close my eyes again.
“I don’t know how this is going to make you feel. I just found out about you too.”
A small, humorless exhale.
“This is new for me.”
I grip the phone tighter.
“But it would mean a lot… if we could meet. Talk. Figure this out.”
My voice dips.
Not breaking.
Just honest.
“Together.”
Silence stretches.
The voicemail still recording.
Waiting.
I could say more.
I don’t.
I’ve said enough.
I inhale slowly.
Then—
“Adiós, Senor Cortés.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“—Papá.”
The word slips out before I can stop it.
Soft.
Unpracticed.
Dangerous.
I pull the phone away immediately.
End the call.
The screen goes dark.
And just like that—
it’s done.
There’s no taking it back.
No rewriting it.
No hiding from it.
I sit there on the bench, my heart still racing, my chest tight, my whole body buzzing like I just stepped off the court after a five-set match.
Except this?
This wasn’t about winning.
This was about being seen.
And for the first time in a long time—
I didn’t wait.
I didn’t hold back.
I didn’t play safe.
I went after something.
Just like Isa would.
Just like the world expects you to if you want anything.
The thought hits me sideways.
And I let out a shaky breath.
Because maybe—
just maybe—
this is what it feels like to stop being the girl who endures…
and start being the one who moves.
The park hasn’t changed.
The sun is still warm.
The flowers still bloom.
People still pass by like nothing just happened.
But everything inside me?
Different.
Completely.
Because somewhere out there—
a man who built empires just got a message
from the daughter he never knew existed.
And I don’t know what he’s going to do with that.
But I know what I did.
I showed up.
And for now—
that’s enough.