Chapter 35
THIRTY-FIVE
ENRICO FERRARA
Valentina settled Clara into one of the jet’s wide leather seats, her delicate hands tucking the blanket carefully around our daughter’s small body. Clara had fallen asleep just minutes after takeoff, utterly exhausted, and the sight pierced me with an unexpected stab of guilt.
I watched Valentina from a distance.
She hadn’t looked at me once since we boarded the aircraft, her entire focus locked on Clara, as if I didn’t exist. Every movement felt deliberate. Measured. Designed to exclude me.
And I understood exactly what she was doing.
She was punishing me. Quietly. In her own way.
The first days at the mansion had unfolded exactly as I’d expected. Every ordinary, domestic moment carried an undercurrent of hostility. Every exchange between Valentina and me was a silent confrontation.
She had closed herself off completely.
The tension only softened when Clara was involved. Watching Valentina with our daughter was the only time I saw anything genuine or gentle in her—and somehow, inexplicably, that bothered me more than her coldness.
I didn’t want to feel like an outsider in my own daughter’s life.
But I also had no idea how to approach Clara without igniting yet another war with Valentina.
I looked away, irritated by the bitter knot forming in my chest, and forced my focus back to the real reason for this sudden trip to S?o Paulo.
The lawyer.
I had spent the last few days turning that meeting over and over in my mind, reaching no conclusions. Only unease.
When we landed, Valentina and Clara got into one car. I got into another.
She was using the trip as an excuse to visit her parents. I, on the other hand, had business to take care of.
Valentina might have bristled at my insistence that she behave like a Ferrara wife, but she was already enjoying the privileges of carrying my last name.
After all, that was what she had always wanted.
I ordered my driver to wait until their car disappeared completely before pulling away. An odd restlessness settled in my chest, uncomfortable and hard to explain.
I shook my head, irritated with myself.
S?o Paulo traffic was relentless, as always. It took nearly an hour to reach the towering building on Faria Lima. The reception was swift and efficient, and soon I was seated across from Marina Oliveira, watching her serious expression as she organized several documents on the desk between us.
“Mr. Ferrara, thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said. “We’ve uncovered something that I believe will be of great interest to you. It concerns Valentina Muniz—” She paused briefly. “—Valentina Ferrara. Congratulations on your marriage.”
I frowned, my attention sharpening instantly.
“Thank you. But if you could get straight to the point, I’d appreciate it.”
I made an impatient gesture for her to continue. A tight, unpleasant sensation was forming low in my chest.
Marina took a slow breath, clearly choosing her words with care.
“I’m not sure how familiar you are with the scope of documents our firm has archived for your family. It’s possible that what I’m about to say won’t come as a surprise. Still, I prefer to err on the side of caution.”
My patience thinned by the second.
“You handle contracts. Wills,” I said with a shrug. “Any legal records that require assistance.”
“Yes. But not only that,” she replied calmly. “We also archive every investigation commissioned by your family—personal or corporate. Confidential agreements. Prenuptial contracts. Non-disclosure clauses. Even… unusual requests.”
“Ms. Oliveira,” I interrupted sharply, “I believe I asked you to be concise.”
She nodded. “I apologize. I’m only trying to prepare you for what I’m about to tell you. It may not be easy to hear.”
I leaned back in the chair, crossing my arms.
“Try me.”
She met my gaze steadily.
“I found evidence indicating that the scandal that dominated the media years ago was nothing more than a carefully orchestrated manipulation. I’m referring to your first wedding to your current wife. The one that never happened. The reasons reported in the press after the incident were false.”
She paused.
“And I believe the person responsible was Eloá Ferrara.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Oppressive.
My heart slowed until it felt as if it might stop entirely. I stared at the documents in front of me, unable to process what she had just said.
My body reacted before my mind could catch up.
A cold tingling spread from my fingertips up my arms and into my chest. My throat constricted painfully, the air refusing to fill my lungs. Dizziness washed over me, and I had to grip the arms of the chair to keep myself grounded.
“That’s not possible,” I murmured, my voice barely audible, rough and unsteady. “Do you realize what you’re suggesting?”
Marina remained composed, her posture professional and unyielding. She was young, dark hair pulled into a neat bun, wearing a navy suit that radiated competence. The office around us mirrored her exactly—minimalist, dark, precise.
“Mr. Ferrara, I would never make such a claim without solid evidence,” she said evenly. She opened the folder and slid several pages toward me. “Please. See for yourself.”
My mind raced, scrambling for an argument, a flaw, something that could dismantle this insanity as my eyes scanned the pages.
The photographs were there.
The ones burned into my memory for years.
But alongside the familiar images—Valentina in bed with another man—there were others.
Same man. Same room. Same angles.
Different woman.
The body type was similar. The hair just as dark. The height nearly identical.
But there was a tattoo above the woman’s hip that Valentina had never had.
And the face—clearly not hers.
Placed side by side, the images were nearly identical.
Nearly.
It was obvious now: the originals had been taken for the sole purpose of manipulation.
And the photos weren’t the only thing in the file.
There were emails. Explicit instructions to fabricate evidence. Bank transfers to individuals who had clearly participated in the scheme.
Each page shattered another piece of the armor I’d spent years building.
My breathing turned erratic. My chest tightened with every line I read. My mind buckled under the weight of the revelation.
“How did you find this?” I finally asked, anger and denial fighting for control. “How did you get these documents?”
Marina straightened slightly.
“While reorganizing archived files from the firm that worked with your grandmother at the time, we found a folder that appeared to have been deliberately buried. These documents were inside. I personally verified their authenticity before contacting you.”
I shook my head, desperate to find something—anything—that would invalidate this.
“You expect me to believe this?” I snapped. “Why come to me with this now? What do you gain from telling me this story?”
She didn’t flinch.
“Nothing,” she replied calmly. “Except, perhaps, peace of conscience. I understand your anger and disbelief, but do not mistake my intentions. I’m not here for personal gain. I’m here because I believe you—and Valentina—deserve the truth.”
Hearing Valentina’s name nearly crushed me.
With every word, my certainty collapsed faster, the ground disappearing beneath my feet.
“And attorney–client privilege?” I demanded, grasping at anything. “Aren’t you violating professional ethics by bringing this to me?”
“Eloá Ferrara was never my direct client,” Marina explained evenly.
“These documents were never under my legal responsibility. I found them incidentally, and I have no obligation to keep them confidential. In fact, my ethical duty is the opposite. When confronted with concrete evidence of a crime, it is my responsibility to disclose it to the injured party.”
The words cut deep.
Everything I had believed for years began to unravel, falling apart into fragments I could never put back together.
“Valentina…” I whispered, the name barely leaving my lips.
Images flooded my mind—every accusation, every humiliation, every cruel word I’d thrown at her.
My chest tightened violently as guilt replaced denial, crushing and absolute.
“My God…”
Marina remained silent, watching me with restrained compassion.
“I know this is devastating,” she said quietly. “But I felt it was essential that you knew as soon as possible. What you choose to do with this information from here on is entirely up to you.”
I stared at her, hollow and numb.
How could I even begin to repair something so monstrous?
The weight of my guilt crushed every last trace of resistance.
My mind repeated the same question over and over, merciless and endless:
What have I done?