Chapter 4 - The Secret Marta Buried
The suite at the boutique hotel in Toledo smelled of expensive lilies and stale tension.
Marta stood in the center of the bedroom, her red silk dress unzipped at the back, clutching a tumbler of neat Scotch with knuckles so pale they looked like bone. Her phone was buzzing incessantly on the nightstand—messages from friends who had been at the wedding, sniffing around for gossip like bloodhounds.
*Is it true Elena had a kid?*
*Who was that guy with her? Is it Daniel Ortega from the shipping group?*
*Álvaro looked sick, what happened??*
Marta silenced the phone with a savage swipe of her thumb, throwing the device face down onto the duvet.
The bathroom door flew open.
Álvaro emerged, having stripped off his jacket and tie. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his hair disheveled, his eyes wild and bloodshot. He had consumed half a bottle of Rioja on the drive back, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the leather had creaked.
"Where is the file, Marta?" he asked, his voice low, vibrating with a manic frequency.
Marta didn't turn around. She took a slow sip of her whiskey. "What file, Álvaro? You’re drunk. Go to bed."
"Don't play games with me!" he roared, slamming his fist against the mahogany wardrobe with a force that rattled the coat hangers inside. "The medical file from Dr. Castillo’s clinic! Five years ago! When Elena left, my mother told me she had the records archived at the family office. But two years ago, when we moved corporate suites, *you* took charge of the personal archives!"
Marta’s shoulders stiffened beneath the loose silk. "Those are old medical documents, Álvaro. Why on earth would you care about clinic paperwork from a failed marriage five years ago? She’s trying to get into your head! Can't you see that? She brought that child to the wedding on purpose to emasculate you!"
"She didn't know I was going to be there!" Álvaro yelled, stepping into her space, grabbing her upper arms and spinning her around to face him. "Claudia is *her* cousin! We were the intruders! Now answer my damn question: where is the report?"
"I don't know!" Marta shrieked, struggling against his grip. "Your mother probably shredded it! Ask Mercedes!"
"My mother couldn't even look me in the eye when we left the estate tonight!" Álvaro’s voice cracked, revealing the raw, festering terror underneath his rage. "She got into her driver’s car without saying goodbye! She was shaking, Marta! Why was my mother shaking?!"
Marta’s eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at the man who had been her ticket into high society.
Three years ago, Marta had found the blue folder.
It had been tucked inside a locked fireproof box in the back of the Rivas family vault, mixed in with old property deeds and tax declarations. Marta had been looking for leverage—something to guarantee that Álvaro would finally put a ring on her finger after years of dragging his feet.
What she had found instead was a death sentence for Álvaro’s ego.
The comprehensive semen analysis from the Ruber Institute, conducted secretly by Mercedes six months before the divorce:
*Total Motility: 2%*
*Sperm Concentration: < 1 million/mL (Severe Oligoasthenoteratozoospermia)*
*Morphology: 0% normal forms.*
*Clinical Assessment: Absolute biological sterility. Natural conception impossible. Donor gametes required.*
Appended to the back of the medical file was a handwritten letter from Dr. Castillo to Mercedes Rivas:
*“Mercedes, as requested, the official clinical summary provided to your son and his wife has been kept intentionally ambiguous, citing 'unexplained combined factors' with an emphasis on female ovarian reserve. However, Álvaro must be informed of the genetic reality if he intends to pursue further treatment. You cannot keep blaming the girl. It is medically unconscionable.”*
Marta had sat on the floor of the archive room that afternoon three years ago, her heart pounding in her ears.
She had realized two things in an instant:
First, Álvaro was entirely, permanently sterile.
Second, if Álvaro found out that *he* was the reason his marriage had crumbled—that he had thrown away an eight-year relationship and publicly scapegoated Elena for an inadequacy that was his alone—he would shatter into a million unfixable pieces. He would sink into an abyss of self-loathing.
And more importantly for Marta: she had realized that if Álvaro knew he couldn't have children, he would never marry her with the promise of "starting a new family." The illusion of their virile, perfect future together would evaporate.
So, Marta had taken the file. She had driven to her sister’s apartment in Pozuelo, locked the documents inside a private safe deposit box, and never uttered a single word. She had spent the last three years subtly steering Álvaro away from having kids, claiming she "wanted to focus on her career first."
And now, Elena Valdés had walked into a vineyard with a living, breathing four-year-old masterpiece of health and joy.
"Marta," Álvaro whispered, his voice dropping into a petrified whimper as he stared at the shifting guilt on her face. "You know something. What did you find in the archives?"
"I found nothing!" she lied, her voice rising in a shrill, defensive shriek. She pushed him away with both hands, stumbling back toward the bed. "You’re being paranoid! You want to believe Elena? Fine! Go ahead! Believe the woman who discarded you! Maybe that kid isn't even Daniel’s! Maybe she bought a baby from an agency in Ukraine! Have you thought about that?!"
Álvaro stared at her. The hysteria in her voice, the frantic dilation of her pupils—it was all the confirmation his shattered mind needed.
"Pack your bags," Álvaro said quietly.
Marta froze. "What?"
"Pack your bags," he repeated, his voice dead, devoid of all emotion. "Get out of my suite. Get out of my apartment in Madrid."
"Álvaro, you can't be serious! Over a lie from your ex-wife?!"
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"I’m going to Dr. Castillo’s office on Monday morning," Álvaro said, turning toward the balcony doors, his back to her. "And if I find out that you and my mother have made me live a lie for the last five years... I swear to God, Marta, you will leave this city with nothing but the clothes on your back."
***
