Ricardo stared at his son. “That’s not funny,” he said. “Elena works here.”
“That’s why,” Gabriel answered, chin lifted. “She’s the only one who actually talks to me.”
Vivian forced a laugh. “Children get attached to staff. It’s normal.”
Nadia’s gaze flicked over Elena’s uniform. “He doesn’t understand what ‘mother’ means.”
Elena’s cheeks warmed, but she stayed calm. “Mr. Alvarez, I didn’t tell him to—”
“I heard them,” Gabriel blurted, cutting through her. His voice shook, then steadied. “When you went for wine. In the hallway. They were talking about the house… and your money… and who would ‘win.’”
Ricardo’s eyes narrowed. “What did you hear, exactly?”
Gabriel swallowed. “One of them said Mom’s portrait should come down because it’s ‘depressing.’ Another said she’d redo my room because it looks ‘too childish.’ And they were asking questions—about the deed, and the trust, and how fast someone could be added.”
A beat of denial hovered in the room, but no one stepped into it. The women’s faces tightened in the way adults do when they realize a child has been paying attention.
Ricardo felt heat climb his neck—embarrassment, anger, and something worse: shame. He had convinced himself he was being practical, that remarriage was logistics. But Gabriel’s grief had turned into a kind of radar, and it was catching signals Ricardo had missed.
