Chapter 12 - Turning the Page
The renovation of the former Villareal estate began before the first frost of winter. Heavy machinery rolled up the long private driveway—not armored sedans carrying corrupt elites, but flatbed trucks loaded with architectural blueprints, library books, and building materials.
I drove out to the estate myself to oversee the initial phases of the transformation. The grand iron gates, once locked against me in the freezing rain, now stood wide open, welcoming contractors, community leaders, and local educators.
As I walked up the marble steps where Bernarda had once stood with her champagne flute, I didn't feel a single ghost of the past. The cold, sterile opulence of the old interior was being stripped away, replaced by warm lighting, open study spaces, and walls lined with historical records of our region's agricultural heritage.
While inspecting the second-floor library, I found one final remnant of the past: a small, forgotten leather-bound guest book pushed deep into the back of a mahogany shelf.
I opened it to the page recording the night of the gala.
There were the names of fifty wealthy guests—people who had laughed as I was dragged through the mud, people who had believed their status made them untouchable. Most of them had already fled the province or lost their fortunes in the economic fallout that followed.
May you like
I closed the book, walked over to the open fireplace where Roberto had stood with his whiskey, and tossed the ledger into the empty grate. I struck a match and dropped it onto the dry pages.
As the flames caught and consumed the last physical record of that miserable night, I felt a final, complete shedding of skin.
