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 dutyis 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.
