Alejandro leaned back in his office chair, the faint hum of the monitor filling the silence. On the screen, the image of a bloody white rose glowed under forensic light — its stem carefully analyzed, the note scanned, the handwriting cross-referenced. “Sir,” one of his investigators said over the speaker, “the handwriting doesn’t match Marco Villareal. But the ink — it’s the same brand used by his father’s old firm. Imported. Rare.” Alejandro’s expression darkened. “So it’s not Marco… but someone using his family’s trail.” “Exactly. Whoever’s behind this knows the Villareals — maybe even wants to expose or imitate them.” He rubbed his temple, glancing at a photo on his desk — a younger Hima standing beside Abi, Aya, and Lila. “They’re walking into something much larger than they think

