Chapter 3 - A New Dawn in the Mansion
Marisol stood frozen. "Diego... I don't understand..."
Diego stepped forward. With delicate, cautious movements, he reached around her waist and untied the wet strings of her canvas apron. He pulled it off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor—the symbol of four years of hidden servitude, cold mornings, and silent suffering.
"You are never wearing this again," Diego said, his voice thick with emotion. "You are not a maid in this house. You never should have been."
"Diego, I can't just stay here like this," Marisol pleaded, her eyes wide with anxiety. "Paulina’s family is powerful. The social scandal... your reputation... people will talk. They will say terrible things about you, about Valentina—"
"Let them talk," Diego interrupted, his hands coming up to gently clasp her upper arms. His touch was warm, solid, and filled with a protective strength she hadn't felt in four long years. "I spent the last four years building towers of concrete and glass, thinking I was securing my legacy. But my real legacy was hiding in the maid's quarters, eating off a plastic plate in the kitchen."
He looked down at Valentina, who was leaning her small head against Marisol's shoulder, her long eyelashes fluttering as sleep began to fight her curiosity.
"Estepan," Diego called out softly.
The security chief, who had remained near the main entrance, stepped forward. "Yes, Mr. Diego?"
"Prepare the master guest suite on the second floor," Diego ordered. "The sunlit corner suite overlooking the south gardens. Have the housekeeping staff bring up fresh linens, soft clothes, and whatever toys or books we have in storage from my nephew's visits."
"Right away, sir," Estepan said, a soft, approving smile touching the old security chief's lips. He had known Diego since he was a boy, and he had secretly witnessed Marisol’s quiet grace and tireless work ethic over the years. "It will be ready in twenty minutes."
"Diego, no, the guest suite is too much," Marisol protested, her face flushing. "We can just stay in our room until I find an apartment—"
"Marisol," Diego said, looking straight into her eyes, his expression uncompromising yet filled with tenderness. "My daughter will not sleep another night in a damp room beside the laundry. And neither will you. You are staying here. Both of you."
He carefully reached out his arms toward Valentina. "May I hold her?"
Marisol hesitated for a fraction of a second, her instinct to shield her child warring with the truth staring her in the face. Slowly, she leaned forward and transferred the sleeping three-year-old girl into Diego’s arms.
Diego held Valentina against his chest. He supported her tiny back with his large hand, feeling the rhythmic, soft rise and fall of her chest. A tear slipped down his cheek, soaking into his dark collar. He bowed his head and pressed a long, gentle kiss into the child's soft, dark hair.
May you like
Valentina stirred slightly in her sleep, shifting her small face into the crook of Diego's neck, letting out a contented sigh.
Diego looked at Marisol, his eyes dark with an unyielding vow. "I missed three years of her life, Marisol. Three years of her first steps, her first words, her first laughter. I am not losing another single day."
