When she reached the main corridor, Damián Gaviria was waiting near the grand staircase, arms crossed, dressed in his perfectly pressed three-piece suit.
“You took too long,” he snapped. “The east wing isn’t that large.” His gaze was sharp, suspicious.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Camila replied, forcing calm into her voice while her heart raced. “There was a lot of dust, especially on the ceiling moldings.”
Damián studied her, his eyes lingering on the slight tremble in her hands.
“Fine. Sign here and leave. And remember—what happens in this mansion stays in this mansion. Mr. Montenegro is very particular about his privacy.”
Camila scribbled her signature, barely able to focus. As Damián handed her the stack of bills, a chilling thought struck her: Why was the lawyer so protective of the east wing? And why was the trunk’s key new, while the lock was rusted?
“One question, Mr. Gaviria,” she said carefully, trying to sound casual. “Does Mr. Montenegro have… grandchildren? I saw some old photographs in the hallway.”
Damián stiffened. For the first time, his expression cracked.