“Mr. Montenegro,” he said coldly, “is a lonely man. He has no direct descendants. The photos you saw were of distant relatives or old acquaintances. Now leave.”
The denial was far too aggressive.
Camila left the mansion, but her thoughts were no longer on her sister’s tuition. They were on three pale, starving faces locked inside a wooden chest.
That night, she couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She had to go back. She had to uncover the truth about the inheritance.
The next morning, Camila called the mansion, pretending she had forgotten her wallet. An irritated Damián gave her permission to retrieve it from the service area.
Instead of going there, Camila moved like a shadow through the halls. She reached the east wing, which Damián had sealed again. Fortunately, she had left the storage room door unsecured the night before.
She slipped inside.
The trunk was exactly where she had left it.
When she opened it, the triplets let out quiet sighs of relief. They were awake—but weak.
Camila had brought a backpack filled with sandwiches, water, and a flashlight.
As they ate hungrily, she asked her questions carefully.
“How long have you been here?”