PART 2
When I opened my eyes, the bright white lights of the operating room blinded me.
I could hear hurried voices, footsteps, medical orders, the beeping of machines, and someone saying they needed more blood. My body would not respond. Everything was cold, metal, movement.
The last thing I remembered was my mother’s voice on the phone telling me to hold on.
Beatriz did not cry. She did not scream. She did not waste time.
In less than twenty minutes, she had secured a private ambulance, activated a specialized surgical team, and immediately paid for my admission to a private hospital in southern Mexico City. She did not just cover the deposit. She locked down an entire floor to make sure no one interfered.
While I was undergoing emergency surgery, Alejandro was sitting in a bar in Polanco with his sister Daniela.
She was wearing a new dress, freshly done nails, and carrying a designer handbag. They were toasting with expensive mezcal as if they had just won something.
“I can’t believe you actually got the money,” Daniela said with a laugh. “Those guys were serious, Ale. You saved me.”
Alejandro smiled with fake exhaustion.
“Mariana was being hysterical. You know how she gets. She’s probably already at the hospital making a scene.”
“And what if she gets really angry?”
“She’ll get over it once the baby is born. Besides, I’m her husband. Where is she going to go?”
That was what he believed.
What he did not know was that my mother already had copies of the transfer records. And this was no ordinary transfer.
The money was held in a protected medical account opened in my name, with restrictions limiting its use to hospital expenses. Alejandro had used my credentials, forged a digital authorization, and moved the money into an account connected to an illegal gambling network where Daniela owed more than she could ever repay.
At eleven o’clock that night, while he ordered another round, his card was declined.
“It must be the bank,” he muttered in irritation.
He tried another card. Declined.
His phone began filling with messages. First from the bank. Then from his employer. Then from an unknown number.
“Your accounts have been frozen due to suspicious activity.”
Alejandro turned pale.
“What’s happening?” Daniela asked.
Before he could answer, he received a call from Human Resources. He worked at a brokerage firm selling financial products. He was not a partner, not an owner, but he carried himself as though the building bore his family name.
“Mr. Rivas,” a cold voice said, “your corporate access has been suspended immediately pending an internal investigation.”
“An investigation into what?”
“Misuse of financial information, possible fraud, and involvement with funds linked to illicit activities.”
Alejandro stood up so quickly that he knocked over a glass.
“This is insane. I didn’t do anything.”
But Daniela was no longer laughing.
“Ale... where exactly did that money come from?”
He looked at her angrily.
“From Mariana. But it was our money.”
“Ours or hers?”
The question landed between them like a stone.
Hours later, at the hospital, my mother stood beside my bed. I was still unconscious, connected to tubes, my face white as paper. But I was alive.
In the neonatal intensive care incubator, my son slept peacefully, small, perfect, breathing.
My mother placed one hand against the glass.
“Welcome, Mateo,” she whispered.
Then she stepped into the hallway.
A man in a dark suit was waiting for her, a former federal prosecutor and an old acquaintance.
“Beatriz, this is serious,” he said while reviewing the documents. “There is identity theft, bank fraud, theft, and possible connections to illegal gambling operations.”
“Then act,” she replied.
“We need time.”
Beatriz stared at him without blinking.
“My daughter didn’t have time while she was bleeding on the floor. My grandson didn’t have time when his father abandoned him to pay off a debt. I want an order before sunrise.”
The man slipped the USB drive into his pocket.
“And the husband?”
My mother smiled slightly.
“Tomorrow he’ll come here pretending to be the victim. Men like him always think a woman who has just given birth is easy to manipulate.”
She was not wrong.
The next morning, Alejandro walked into the hospital carrying a cheap bouquet of wilted flowers. He wore a rehearsed expression of concern, as though he were ready to say, “I’m sorry. I panicked.”
But as he turned the corner, two security guards blocked his path.
“My wife is in there,” he demanded. “I’m the baby’s father.”
The door opened.
And my mother appeared.
Alejandro dropped the flowers.
“Beatriz...”
She threw a red folder at his feet.
“Immediate termination, divorce petition, criminal complaint, and request for sole custody.”
He swallowed hard.
“You can’t do this to me.”
“No, Alejandro,” she said. “You did this to yourself.”
Then, at the far end of the hallway, the elevator doors opened.
Two agents walked directly toward him.
And from my hospital bed, I woke up just in time to hear them call his name.
PART 3
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