Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Cortez
Madrid hums beneath me. My penthouse sits above it all—quiet, insulated—untouchable. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the skyline, the city glowing gold against the dark, traffic threading like veins through the streets below.
Inside, everything is curated.
Leather. Marble. Art that costs more than most men make in a year.
And tonight—company.
She’s beautiful. Long legs draped over the edge of my sofa, silk dress slipping just enough to suggest, not reveal. Dark hair, perfect skin, the kind of face that sells campaigns and starts rumors.
She laughs at something I didn’t fully listen to.
I smile anyway.
It’s a practiced thing.
Effortless.
Detached.
A glass of Rioja sits in my hand. I swirl it once, watching the legs slide down the crystal.
Routine.
Predictable.
Controlled.
My phone buzzes once on the table.
She shifts closer.
Her hand lands on my knee.
“I thought you said you were going to disconnect tonight,” she purrs.
“I did.”
Another buzz.
I glance at the screen this time.
Voicemail.
Unknown number. I have my office inbox messages forwarded to my work cell after hours.
I almost ignore it.
Almost.
Then something—I don’t know what—has me reaching for the phone.
“Give me a moment.”
She sighs, but smiles like she’s used to it. I step away, toward the windows, city spread out beneath me.
A beat of silence.
Then—
Her voice.
Spanish first.
Clear.
Steady.
Unafraid.
I don’t move.
Don’t breathe.
I listen.
All of it.
Every word.
Every detail.
The date.
The place.
Her mother.
The letters.
The calls.
My name.
Her name.
Cortéz.
Stanford.
Athlete.
Top of her class.
Her voice doesn’t shake.
Not once.
Not when she says:
“Tienes una hija de la que deberías estar orgulloso.”
(You have a daughter you should be proud of)
The line clicks dead.
The city keeps moving.
But something fundamental—has just shifted.
I replay it, immediately.
Then again.
The third time, I sit down.
The glass of wine remains untouched in my hand. Her voice fills the room again. Not emotional. Not pleading.
Just—certain.
Confident.
She didn’t ask for anything.
She informed me.
My jaw tightens.
I open my browser.
Type her name.
Stella Cortéz.
The results populate instantly.
Stanford University.
Division-1 volleyball.
Images.
I click one.
And everything else disappears.
She’s mine.
There is no doubt.
The height.
The bone structure.
The eyes.
Dark. Sharp. Unapologetic.
She stands on a court, mid-play, body coiled with power, focus carved into her expression like it’s part of her DNA.
I zoom in.
Closer.
There it is.
My face.
Reflected in hers.
Younger.
Fiercer.
Untouched by compromise.
A slow exhale leaves me.
“Mi hija…”
(My daughter…)
The words feel foreign.
And inevitable.
Behind me, the model calls out lightly, “Everything okay?”
No.
Nothing is okay.
Everything is different.
I stand, for the first time all evening—I actually see her and feel nothing. “Carla,” I say calmly, “the car will take you home.”
Her smile falters. “What?”
“I have business.”
She studies my face noticing something has changed and gathers her things without another word.
The second the door closes—I move, phone in hand.
One call.
“Alonso.”
My attorney answers immediately. “Senor.”
“I need you at the penthouse. Now.”
A beat.
“No questions.”
“Yes, senor.”
Next call is to, Javier, the head of security. “I want a full trace on a U.S. number. Immediate.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Also—pull everything on Stella Cortéz. Stanford University.”
Pause.
“Understood.”
Next.
“Nico.”
My pilot.
“Prep the jet.”
Silence.
Then—“Destination?”
I look back at the screen. “California.”
Within twenty minutes, my home fills with quiet efficiency.
Screens light up.
Data pulls.
Maps populate.
Stanford.
Residence halls.
Training facilities.
Her schedule begins to take shape.
A photo of her flashes across one monitor.
Then another.
I step closer.
Study it.
“She did this alone?” I murmur.
No one answers.
They don’t need to.
It’s obvious.
Another screen.
Her mother.
Name.
Location.
Rhode Island.
Financial records surface.
Modest.
Strained.
My jaw tightens.
I look at Alonso.
“Wire funds.”
“How much?”
“Enough that she never has to clean another floor again.”
No hesitation.
He nods.
I turn back to the screens.
Back to Stella.
Another image loads.
Her laughing this time.
Head thrown back slightly.
Uncontrolled.
Alive.
Something in my chest—
shifts.
Sharp.
Unfamiliar.
Dangerous.
“I should have answered,” I say quietly.
No one speaks.
Because there is no excuse.
Javier steps closer.
“We’ve arranged local security in Palo Alto. Discreet. She won’t be aware.”
Good.
She wouldn’t like that.
I can already tell.
Too proud.
Too independent.
Too much like—
Me.
A slow smile pulls at my mouth.
“She didn’t hesitate,” I say.
Alonso glances at me. “She contacted you directly.”
“Yes.”
No games.
No fear.
Just truth.
“She is strong,” I continue. “Decisive.” My chest tightens slightly. “I like that.” I step closer to the glass. Madrid glowing beneath me.
But my world—has shifted across an ocean. To California. To a girl who carries my name. My blood. My fire. “Mi hija…”
This time it’s quieter. Heavier. Real. “I’m coming.”