“Good evening,” I said softly.
“And you must be Luis?”
He swallowed. “Who… who are you?”
“My name is Ana Ruiz,” I replied. “Isabel’s older sister. And the attorney who handled the purchase contract for this house.”
I lifted my phone, showing him a scanned document.
He recognized it instantly.
The woman in red took a step back.
“This property,” I continued calmly, “is owned by a holding company I legally represent. The same company that funded your failed business last year—under ONE condition: that Isabel be treated with dignity.”
Luis forced a crooked smile.
“You’re mistaken. Isabel has… issues. I’ve been taking care of her.”
“Taking care of her?” I knelt and draped my coat over Isabel’s shoulders.
“Is this your idea of care?”
The woman in red whispered sharply,
“Luis, you told me everything was under control.”
I looked at her once.
“Nothing is under control. Not anymore.”
I placed a thick sealed folder on the marble table:
Eviction orders.
Asset division.
Formal complaint for economic and psychological abuse.
Luis paled.
That was the moment he realized:
It was over.
I called an ambulance—not because Isabel had visible injuries, but because neglect leaves a different kind of wound.