Inside are purchase records, transfers, and credit statements tied to luxury expenditures in the last eighteen months. The Tulum villa. The Chanel bag. The Cartier watch Ximena posted once on Instagram with the caption spoiled in the right language. The private hospital deposit for her mother’s elective procedure. The custom kitchen renovation in the apartment Esteban rented under a consulting entity for her “privacy.” Every indulgence pulled, at least partly, from lines of credit now defaulted or from accounts commingled with obligations under dispute.
Verónica makes a pleased little sound like a cat discovering sunlight.
Teresa whispers, “Dios mío.”
Ximena stares at the papers as if they might leap up and bite her.
“No,” she says. “Those were gifts.”
“Maybe,” Beltrán says carefully. “But if purchased through fraudulent transfers, misappropriated corporate funds, or while insolvent, a receiver or creditor may seek recovery.”
There it is.
The second explosion.
Not only is the inheritance rotten.
The romance itself may come with receipts.
“You mean they can take my things?” Ximena says.
