PART 4: THE WOMAN WHO SOLD MY TRUST
The message on my phone came from someone I had loved and trusted for almost twenty years.
My godmother, Teresa.
The woman who had held my hand at my mother’s funeral. The woman who had helped me choose my wedding dress. The woman who had introduced me to Sergio six years earlier, telling me he was the kind of man who would finally give me the family I deserved.
And now, according to Marta’s letter, she had helped him destroy another woman’s life.
Stop looking into the past, Elena. Some secrets are buried for a reason.
Lucía sat beside me on the sofa.
“Who sent that?”
I turned the screen toward her.
Her expression changed immediately.
“Teresa? Your godmother Teresa?”
I nodded slowly.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“Elena, wasn’t Teresa the person who convinced you to hire Sergio’s friend to handle the paperwork when you refinanced your apartment?”
My blood ran cold.
Three years earlier, I had refinanced my mortgage to secure a better interest rate. Teresa had insisted that a family acquaintance could help with the process.
I remembered signing documents while she sat beside me, smiling reassuringly.
Now I wondered whether every reassuring word had been part of a plan.
I immediately called Patricia.
She answered on the second ring.
“Elena? Is everything okay?”
“No,” I whispered. “I think this started long before my marriage.”
I explained everything: Marta’s photographs, the letter, Teresa’s message, and the refinancing documents.
Patricia listened without interrupting.
“But Patricia, she’s practically my mother.”
Her voice softened.
“I understand. But someone being close to you doesn’t make them incapable of betraying you.”
That night, I barely slept.
Every memory of Teresa came back differently.
The way she had encouraged me to forgive Sergio whenever we argued.
The way she insisted marriages required sacrifice.
The way she once laughed when I mentioned keeping my bank accounts separate.
“Don’t be so suspicious, darling,” she had said. “A good wife shares everything.”
I had mistaken those words for old-fashioned advice.
Now they sounded like instructions.
The next morning, Patricia called before eight.
“Elena, I’ve received something from Daniel Medina.”
I sat upright.
“What?”
“Copies of internal correspondence from his father’s company. There’s an email from Sergio discussing your apartment. But another person was copied on that email.”
I already knew the answer.
“Teresa.”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
Patricia continued, “The message was sent almost seven months before your wedding.”
I gripped the bedsheet.
“Before we were married?”
“Before Sergio even proposed.”
I couldn’t speak.
All those years, I believed Sergio had fallen in love with me because of my personality, my kindness, and the life we were building together.
But according to that email, he had been discussing my property before asking me to marry him.
Patricia read one sentence aloud.
“Elena trusts Teresa completely. Once we’re married, securing her cooperation shouldn’t be difficult.”
I felt sick.
There was no romance in those words.
No affection.
Only calculation.
“What did Teresa get?” I asked.
Patricia hesitated.
“Daniel’s documents suggest she was promised a payment when the financing arrangement was completed. We still need to verify whether she received anything.”
I closed my eyes.
I could survive losing Sergio.
But the thought of Teresa helping him choose me because I trusted her was almost unbearable.
At eleven that morning, I went with Patricia to provide the additional evidence to the authorities.
We submitted the messages, the photographs, the financial records, and the information Daniel had shared.
While we were leaving, Patricia’s phone rang.
It was Daniel.
She put him on speaker.
“My father has agreed to talk,” he said.
We stopped walking.
“Why now?” Patricia asked.
“Because Sergio called him last night. He threatened to blame everything on him if the police started examining the transactions.”
“And what does your father want?”
“To tell you what happened. But he wants his own lawyer present.”
An hour later, we met Álvaro Medina in a conference room at Patricia’s office.
He looked nothing like the powerful businessman I had imagined.
He was pale, exhausted, and trembling as he placed a leather folder on the table.
“I owe you an apology, Elena,” he began.
I stared at him.
“An apology?”
He lowered his eyes.
“I believed your husband when he said you had agreed to the guarantee.”
“You believed him because it was convenient,” I answered.
Álvaro didn’t argue.
Instead, he opened the folder.
Inside were contracts, emails, and financial statements.
He explained that Sergio had promised to bring investors and assets into a struggling financing venture. Rocío had been listed as a consultant, supposedly responsible for finding new clients.
Then Álvaro revealed something unexpected.
“The company was already in financial trouble. Sergio knew we needed money urgently. He offered your apartment as security and said the paperwork would be handled through someone you trusted.”
“Teresa,” I whispered.
He nodded.
“But there’s something you should know. The application was never fully completed. Your property hasn’t been transferred to anyone, and the disputed guarantee is being challenged.”
For the first time in days, I felt a small spark of relief.
My home was still legally mine.
But that relief lasted only seconds.
Álvaro slid another document toward Patricia.
“This is why I agreed to come.”
Patricia examined it carefully.
Then she looked up.
“Elena, this is an agreement to distribute the proceeds if your property were sold.”
My mouth fell open.
“Sold?”
Álvaro nodded slowly.
“Sergio proposed that if the financing failed, your apartment could be sold to repay the debt. They had already discussed how the remaining money would be divided.”
I stared at the document.
There were three names beneath the payment instructions.
Sergio Lozano.
Rocío Lozano.
Teresa Vargas.
And beside Teresa’s name was an amount.
€40,000.
Forty thousand euros.
That was apparently the price of twenty years of love, loyalty, and trust.
I remembered Teresa comforting me when my mother died. Cooking meals when I was sick. Telling me that I was like the daughter she never had.
And all this time, she had allegedly been willing to profit from the loss of my home.
I pushed the document away.
“I need some air.”
Patricia followed me into the hallway.
I leaned against the wall, fighting tears.
“Why did she do this?” I whispered.
Patricia didn’t pretend to know.
“Money can reveal things about people that love sometimes hides.”
I wiped my face carefully, avoiding the injured skin.
“No. I want to hear it from her.”
Patricia shook her head.
“Not alone. And not without advice about how it might affect the investigation.”
I nodded.
But before we could discuss the next step, my phone rang.
Teresa.
I stared at the screen.
Patricia glanced at the caller’s name.
“You don’t have to answer.”
I took a breath.
“I know.”
Then I answered.
“Hello, Teresa.”
Her familiar warm voice filled my ear.
“Elena, sweetheart. I’ve been so worried about you.”
I almost laughed at the cruelty of it.
“Have you?”
“Of course. Sergio told me you’ve been behaving irrationally. He says you’re trying to ruin him.”
I remained silent.
“Listen, darling,” she continued, “marriage is complicated. Men lose their temper. That doesn’t mean you should destroy your family.”
I looked through the glass doors into Patricia’s office, where Álvaro sat beside a folder containing evidence of the arrangement.
“Teresa,” I asked quietly, “how much did Sergio promise you?”
The silence on the other end was immediate.
Then she whispered, “What?”
“Forty thousand euros. Was that really all my home was worth to you?”
Her breathing changed.
“Elena, you don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Another silence.
Finally, her voice became cold.
“You were never supposed to find out.”
I felt as if someone had struck me.
Those seven words destroyed the last fragile piece of hope I had been holding.
“You helped him,” I whispered.
“I helped you build a future!” she snapped. “You had that apartment sitting there while other people were struggling. Sergio had opportunities. Rocío had debts. And you refused to help anyone!”
“My home wasn’t yours to give away!”
She exhaled sharply.
“You’ve always been selfish with money, just like your mother.”
My entire body went rigid.
“Don’t you dare mention my mother.”
Teresa gave a bitter laugh.
“Your mother wasn’t the saint you remember, Elena. There are things about that apartment you’ve never understood.”
I froze.
“What things?”
But Teresa had already hung up.
I stood motionless, staring at the phone.
Patricia approached.
“What happened?”
“She said something about my mother.”
Patricia frowned.
“What exactly?”
I repeated her words.
Patricia was silent for a moment.
Then she asked, “Elena, where did you get the money for your apartment’s original deposit?”
The question surprised me.
“From my savings. And part of the inheritance my mother left me.”
“Who administered that inheritance?”
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
“Teresa helped me with the paperwork. My mother had trusted her.”
Patricia slowly nodded.
“I think we need to look at those records too.”
That afternoon, I returned to Lucía’s apartment and opened a box of old documents I had collected from my home.
Inside were my mother’s letters, insurance papers, and a small notebook she had kept during the final months of her life.
I had never read the notebook completely.
Until that day.
Near the back, I found a folded envelope with my name written in her handwriting.
For Elena, when she’s ready to understand.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
The letter was dated just three weeks before my mother’s death.
The first paragraph made me cry.
But halfway through, the words changed.
My mother wrote that she had begun questioning several financial transactions handled by Teresa. She had discovered missing funds and intended to confront her after receiving copies of the bank statements.
Then came a sentence that made me feel as though the floor had vanished beneath me.
“If anything happens before I can resolve this, Elena, please don’t let Teresa control what I leave behind. I’ve trusted her for years, but I now have reason to believe she’s been taking money from us.”
I covered my mouth.
My mother had suspected Teresa.
Years before Sergio.
Years before the marriage.
Years before the burning coffee.
I kept reading.
At the bottom, my mother had written one final warning.
“There’s a second account. Teresa doesn’t know that I discovered it. The details are in the blue folder behind my wedding photograph.”
I ran to the bedroom where I had stored the boxes.
My mother’s framed wedding photograph was wrapped in an old blanket.
I removed the backing carefully.
And there it was.
A thin blue folder.
Inside were bank statements, a signed authorization, and a handwritten note containing a name.
Not Sergio.
Not Rocío.
Not even Teresa.
It was the name of a lawyer who had handled my mother’s estate.
A lawyer who, according to the documents, had authorized a transfer of €96,000 just days after my mother’s death.
I stared at the signature.
Then I called Patricia.
“Please tell me you’re sitting down,” I whispered.
“Elena, what is it?”
“I think Teresa didn’t just try to steal my home.”
My voice broke.
“I think she already stole part of my mother’s inheritance.”
But before Patricia could respond, Lucía called from the living room.
“Elena! You need to see this!”
I hurried toward her.
She was standing by the window, staring down at the street.
Parked directly outside her building was Sergio’s car.
And sitting in the passenger seat was Teresa.
But neither of them was looking toward the apartment.
They were watching a third person approaching the entrance.
A man in a dark suit carrying a familiar leather briefcase.
Lucía turned toward me, terrified.
“Elena, who is that man?”
I looked closer.
And suddenly, I recognized his face from an old photograph in my mother’s documents.
He was the lawyer who had handled her inheritance.
TO BE CONTINUED IN LAST PART…
