This wasn’t the tired look of a child who had been playing too hard. It was surrender. The face of someone who had already learned that speaking up changed nothing.
Rodrigo’s jaw tightened. In that instant, every building he’d designed, every investment he’d negotiated, every meeting he’d attended became meaningless.
“I swear, it’s ridiculously easy,” Beatriz said between laughs. “I’ve got her working like a maid, and her idiot father hasn’t noticed a thing. She’s terrified to say a word.”
Rage surged through Rodrigo so violently his vision blurred. But he forced himself to remain still. He couldn’t lose control—not yet. He needed proof. He needed to shield Valentina completely.
He stepped behind decorative shrubs and watched.
“Valentina!” Beatriz barked from above. “You were supposed to be done an hour ago. Hurry up!”
“I’m sorry, Beatriz,” Valentina answered, her small hands gripping the bag, red and raw. “They’re really heavy…”
“So what? I worked twice as hard at your age. Stop pretending you’re weak.”
“But I’m… eight years old…”
“Exactly. Old enough. Move faster before I give you more to do.”
Valentina swallowed and continued pulling. Rodrigo noticed the blisters—real ones—burned into her palms. The hands of someone forced into labor, not a child meant to be drawing pictures or inventing stories.
“No… no… please…” She dropped to her knees, frantically gathering the mess with bare hands. “If I don’t clean it… he’ll be angry…”
That was enough.
Rodrigo stepped out from hiding and walked straight toward her.
“Valentina.”
She stiffened and slowly turned. Her eyes widened, caught between disbelief and fear.
“Dad…?” she whispered. “Is it really you?”
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