Chapter 7 - The Downfall Begins
By Thursday afternoon, the collapse of Álvaro Rivas’s world had transitioned from a private family tragedy into a full-scale corporate catastrophe.
The Spanish financial daily, *Expansión*, ran a devastating blind item on its front page: *“Major Real Estate Scion Facing Forensic Audit Following Allegations of Internal Embezzlement and Personal Misconduct.”*
Everyone in Madrid’s business district knew exactly who it was.
Once Álvaro had ejected Marta from his life, she had not gone quietly. Marta Sanz was a woman who had clawed her way up from middle-class obscurity by understanding the weaknesses of powerful men. When Álvaro had frozen her corporate credit cards and changed the locks on their luxury apartment, Marta had made a single, catastrophic phone call to the chief compliance officer of Álvaro’s primary institutional lender—a bank heavily influenced by Daniel Ortega’s financial consortium.
She had handed over three years of private spreadsheets: forged expense accounts, unauthorized transfers from the Chamartín development escrow accounts, and receipts for luxury jewelry billed as "corporate marketing expenses."
By Friday morning, Álvaro found himself locked out of his own headquarters on Calle de Serrano.
He stood on the pavement outside the glass tower, surrounded by curious onlookers and two armed private security guards who handed him a cardboard box containing his desk items.
"You can't do this!" Álvaro screamed, his voice hoarse, clutching the box against his chest. "I am the majority managing partner! Call my lawyer!"
"Mr. Rivas," the head of security replied without blinking. "The board of directors convened an emergency session at seven this morning. By unanimous vote of the minority shareholders, your executive powers have been suspended pending the outcome of the external forensic audit. You are prohibited from entering the premises."
Across the street, parked discreetly by the curb, sat a sleek black Audi.
Inside, Marta rolled down the tinted window by an inch, watching Álvaro’s public humiliation through dark designer sunglasses. A vicious, satisfied smirk played across her lips. If she was going down, she was taking the king with her.
She tapped her phone, dialing her sister.
"It’s done," Marta said coldly into the receiver. "He’s finished. Pack the bags at the Pozuelo house. We’re taking the evening flight to Miami before the tax investigators start freezing joint accounts."
She hit end, put the car in drive, and pulled out into the Madrid traffic, convinced she had escaped the blast radius.
She didn't notice the unmarked dark sedan that slipped into the lane two cars behind her—investigators from the Spanish Special Prosecution Office Against Corruption, acting on an expedited dossier submitted seventy-two hours earlier by Daniel Ortega’s legal team.
May you like
Marta Sanz wouldn't be boarding any flight to Miami. By nightfall, she would be sitting in an interrogation room at the Plaza de Castilla courthouse, facing multiple felony counts of corporate fraud, document forgery, and money laundering.
***
