Not sitting.
Standing.
He grips a walker with both hands. His braces are locked around his legs. His face is pale with effort, but his eyes are alive.
The room freezes.
Doña Isabella covers her mouth.
Don Richard, who had just entered from the study, stops as if the floor has vanished.
Damian’s smile dies.
Alejandro takes one step out of the elevator.
Then another.
Each step is slow.
Painful.
Impossible.
You cannot breathe.
He stops beside you.
His voice is shaking, but clear.
“If she leaves, I leave.”
Doña Isabella begins crying immediately.
Not from joy.
From shock.
“Alejandro…”
He looks at her.
“No. You don’t get to cry now.”
She flinches.
“You hid me for three years,” he says. “You let doctors lie. You let Damian call me useless. You let this house become my grave.”
Don Richard’s face hardens.
“That is enough.”
“No,” Alejandro says. “It isn’t.”
Damian steps forward.
“You’re confused.”
Alejandro turns to him.
“For three years, you hoped I was.”
The room goes silent.
Then Alejandro looks at his father.
“I know about the trust. I know about the forged medical reports. I know about the crash footage.”
Don Richard turns pale.
Doña Isabella grips the sofa.
Damian’s eyes dart toward the doors.
Too late.
The front doors open.
Two attorneys enter.
Behind them are police officers.
And behind them, to your shock, is the fired physical therapist, Dr. Elena Morris, holding a medical file in her hands.
The mansion becomes chaos.
Damian shouts that the footage is fake.
