Confidential

Chapter Seven

By the time Sari walked back into the conference room the next morning, she already knew something was wrong.

Mariella was on the phone, pacing. Her tone was clipped, polite, and professional, the voice of someone hitting a wall but refusing to show it.

When she hung up, she exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve tried three channels. Corporate line, personal assistant, direct request through his PR team. They’re all deflecting.”

Sari frowned. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, every attempt to reach Matthew Elizalde goes through his lawyers at Ardent Lex Group, and they’ve blocked every single one. Calls, emails, letters. The message is clear.”

Sari’s voice was quiet, but dangerous. “They don’t want a discussion.”

“They don’t want you,” Mariella corrected gently. “Not yet, anyway. They think you’ll break and settle. They’re waiting you out.”

Sari’s jaw tightened, fury pulsing low and steady in her chest. “Cowards.”

Mariella gave her a sympathetic look. “Sari, this is what powerful men do. They hide behind walls of lawyers and NDAs. They’ll bleed you out in bureaucracy if you let them.”

“Then I won’t let them,” Sari said flatly.

Mariella sighed. “You can’t exactly corner someone like Elizalde. He’s protected. Bodyguards, assistants, schedules booked months in advance.”

Sari gave a humorless smile. “Everyone has a weak spot, Mariella. I just have to find his.”

And she would.

The moment Mariella left for her next meeting, Sari opened her laptop and got to work.

Hours passed. Article after article, thread after thread, all dissecting him and the woman at the center of this mess, Lindsay Roces.

Lindsay was exactly the type Sari expected, model, aspiring influencer, with a string of “brand partnerships” and interviews that oozed self-promotion. Her i********: was a curated collage of designer bags, yacht trips, and cryptic captions about “truth coming to light.”

Sari snorted softly. “Truth, my ass. You just wanted your fifteen minutes.”

She read more, old interviews, press releases, photo spreads. Lindsay had been linked to Elizalde for almost a year before the scandal broke. Not officially, of course, he never acknowledged any woman publicly. But everyone knew.

And now, after one press leak and a conveniently timed pregnancy announcement, she’d become the nation’s new obsession.

Sari closed the tab, disgusted. “Textbook gold digger,” she muttered. “Climb the ladder, cry victim, cash out.”

But what if the clinic really had been used as her stepping stone? What if one careless staff member had leaked her records, or worse, someone sold them?

The thought made Sari’s stomach twist.

She pushed back her chair and headed for the medical records department.

The clinic’s storage server was digitized, but not exactly modern. Passwords were old-school. The filing system was ancient, a patchwork of manual entries, scanned forms, and coded reference names.

Sari sat at one of the terminals and started searching.

R-O-C-E-S, Lindsay.

No results.

She frowned, typing again.Roces, L.Still nothing.

That was impossible. Sylvia said the woman had been a client.

After fifteen minutes of dead ends, she finally approached one of the senior staff nurses, Ate Mila, a woman who had worked there since her mother’s time.

“Ate Mila,” Sari said quietly, “I’m looking for a patient file. Lindsay Roces. It’s supposed to be from one of our private accounts.”

The older woman hesitated, lowering her voice. “Doctor, those records aren’t under patient names.”

Sari blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They’re filed under the name of the men who bring them in. The… sponsors,” Mila said delicately. “We were told to catalog everything that way for confidentiality.”

For a moment, Sari just stared at her. Then the anger returned, quiet, sharp, and surgical. “So every woman who came here exists only as a footnote in some man’s file?”

Mila nodded nervously. “That’s the system we were told to follow, Doctor.”

Sari forced a steady breath. “Show me.”

Mila logged her into the restricted database, the one Sylvia and Arthur had clearly hoped she’d never open.

A list of names appeared on the screen, each one like a punch to the gut. De Vera, Santiago.Valdez, Renato.Almeda, Alexander.Jacinto, PaoloElizalde, Matthew.

Sari scrolled through them, reading in silence. These were the same men who funded foundations, appeared on charity boards, preached “family values” on national television.

When she stopped at Alexander Almeda, her curiosity flickered. He was one of the senior partners of Ardent Lex Group, the same firm currently representing Matthew Elizalde.

“Interesting,” she murmured, opening the file.

Only one name appeared underneath.

Jessica Manlapig.

Sari stared for a moment, lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “So the moral gatekeepers are clients too.”

She closed the file and scrolled further down.

Then she clicked Matthew Elizalde.

The screen loaded, and her eyes widened.

Twenty-two names.

Twenty-two women.

Each entry marked with initials, age, medical summaries, coded prescriptions. No duplicates. No overlap.

Her pulse quickened as she scrolled through them, actresses, models, even a few public figures whose names she recognized from tabloids.

Her disgust turned to something colder. “Unbelievable,” she whispered. “Unmarried, untouchable, and apparently allergic to commitment.”

Her anger simmered, not just for what he was, but for what this file represented. Power. Control. Men like him treating people’s lives like property.

She closed the database, jaw tight.

If Ardent Lex Group wanted to block her calls, fine.If Matthew Elizalde wanted to hide behind his lawyers, fine.

She knew where to find him now.

And next time, he wouldn’t see her coming.