A story of family betrayal, ambition, humiliation and justice. Because sometimes the person who seems most vulnerable is the only one who knows the whole truth.

CHAPTER 1. THE MAN WHO ATE ON THE FLOOR

“DADDY, GET UP!”

Javier’s scream echoed throughout the manor’s kitchen.

Don Ernesto, seventy-eight years old, slowly raised his head.

His knees rested on the cold white marble. Her hands were shaking around a small metal bowl and a tear ran down the deep wrinkles of her face.

On the countertop, a golden-coated dog was quietly waiting for his meal.

A few meters away, Lucía, Javier’s wife, was sitting on a stool, dressed in an elegant burgundy satin blouse.

She didn’t seem to feel any shame.

She hadn’t even tried to help the old man when she heard the front door open.

Javier dropped his keys.

“Dad… What are you doing? »

Don Ernesto tried to get up, but his legs refused to obey him.

“Nothing, my son. Everything is fine. »

Javier rushed to him.

He knelt down and discovered the contents of the bowl: some leftover meat mixed with cold rice.

Then he looked at the dog’s bowl.

It was filled with fresh meat.

Something broke inside him.

“Who gave you this?”

The old man looked down.

“I was hungry.”

“I ASKED YOU WHO GAVE YOU THIS!”

Lucía heaved an impatient sigh.

“Javier, please. Don’t start making a scene. »

He turned his head towards her.

“A scene?”

“Your father has been doing as he pleases since this morning. I told him a thousand times that he shouldn’t eat anywhere. »

Javier looked at his father again.

“Dad, did she force you to eat here?”

Don Ernesto did not answer.

But his silence was enough.

Javier takes over.

“Lucía, look at me.”

She crossed her arms.

“What?”

“Did you force my father to eat from the dog’s bowl?”

“Don’t exaggerate. This bowl was clean. »

For several seconds, Javier was unable to speak.

This response was worse than any confession.

“Do you think that’s normal?”

“What I don’t find normal is having to take care of an old man who doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore. I’m not his nurse. »

Don Ernesto closed his eyes.

Javier sentit son estomac se nouer.

For three years, he had believed that his wife cared for her father with affection.

Whenever he went on a business trip, Lucía assured him that Don Ernesto was quiet, well fed and properly taken care of.

She even sent him pictures of the old man sitting in the garden, enjoying the sun.

But now he understood a terrible thing.

All these photographs had been taken under circumstances of which he was unaware.

“You told me you took care of him,” he whispered.

Lucía relieves her chin.

“And that’s what I do. But you have no idea how difficult it is to live with him. »

“You made him eat on the ground.”

“Because he refuses to respect the rules of the house.”

“Whose rules?”

“From this house, Javier. From our house. »

Then Javier took a folded document out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

He unfolded it slowly.

“That’s exactly what we’re going to talk about.”

Lucía looked at the paper.

His expression changed.

For the first time since Javier’s arrival, she lost her confidence.

“Where did you get that?”

Javier didn’t answer.

He simply placed the document on the work surface.

“Explain to me why my father would have signed the sale of this manor.”

Lucía turned pale.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And why does your signature appear as a representative of the buying company?”

An absolute silence set in.

Don Ernesto, still on his knees, slowly raised his eyes.

And he said a sentence that neither of them expected.

“My son… This is not the only evidence. »

Javier turned to his father.

Lucía takes a step back.

“What evidence?” she asked.

The old man looked directly at his daughter-in-law.

His voice was weak, but his words resounded with chilling clarity.

“The ones you thought you had destroyed.”

And in that moment, Lucía understood that the man she had been humiliating for months had perhaps never been as defenseless as he seemed.

CHAPTER 2. THREE YEARS OF LIES

To understand how Don Ernesto ended up on his knees on the floor of his own mansion, you had to go back three years.

Until then, the family had lived in relative tranquility.

Don Ernesto Valcárcel was born in a small village in Castile, in a house where five brothers and sisters shared two rooms.

His father was a mason.

His mother sewed other people’s clothes to earn a few coins.

At the age of fourteen, Ernesto began working unloading bags in a warehouse.