Chapter 123
Chapter 123
Chapter 123
Yvonne’s POV
The office smelled like dust and old paper. It hit me the moment I stepped inside. That stale smell that never left places like this, like nothing ever changed here, like time just sat and rotted in the corners.
The man behind the desk didn’t even look up at first. He kept typing, calm, unbothered, like I wasn’t standing right in front of him with my whole life falling apart.
“I have a story,” I said.
My voice sounded dry, like I hadn’t spoken in days.
He glanced up once, then back to his screen. “Everyone has a story.”
“I’m serious.”
That made him pause. Slowly, he leaned back in his chair and looked at me properly. Not interested. Not curious. Just tired.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s hear it.”
I sat down across from him, pressing my hands into my lap so he wouldn’t see them shaking. “It’s about Isabella Valen.”
That got a reaction, small but real. His eyes sharpened just a little.
“What about her?”
“She’s not who people think she is.”
He sighed like I had already wasted his time. “They never are.”
“No, listen to me.” I leaned forward. “She’s not Salome’s real daughter. She’s Lucia Mendez.”
Silence filled the room. Heavy. Thick.
He stared at me like I had just said something ridiculous.
“Lucia Mendez is dead,” he said.
“She’s not. She faked it. Changed her face. Came back as Isabella. Planned everything. The revenge, the wedding, all of it. She destroyed us.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t write anything. Just watched me.
“And you know this how?”
“I was there. I saw everything. She admitted it. In front of everyone. At the cathedral.”
Still nothing.
Then he let out a slow breath and rubbed his face. “Do you have proof?”
“I told you, I was there.”
“That’s not proof.”
“It is. I saw it happen.”
“That’s your word.”
“That should be enough!”
“It’s not.”
His voice stayed calm, and somehow that made it worse.
“Miss…?”
“Rodriguez.”
“Miss Rodriguez, what you’re describing is serious. You’re accusing a powerful woman of faking her death and building a false identity. We don’t publish that based on one person’s story.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Truth needs evidence.”
“I don’t have documents, but—”
“Then you don’t have a story.”
The words hit hard.
“I came here because this is your job,” I snapped. “To find the truth.”
“Our job is to report facts we can verify, not chase fantasies.”
“It’s not a fantasy!”
“Then bring me something real.”
My chest tightened. “There were hundreds of people there.”
“Then bring them.”
“They won’t talk.”
“Why not?”
“They’re scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of her. Of Salome. Of what they can do.”
He watched me for a long second. Then he leaned forward slightly.
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“And I’m telling you this sounds like a conspiracy theory.”
My throat went dry. “I’m not crazy.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking you don’t have evidence.”
I pushed my chair back so hard it scraped the floor. “Fine. Don’t believe me.”
“I’m not saying that. I’m saying prove it.”
“You’ll regret this when it comes out.”
“If it comes out, we’ll cover it.”
“When it’s too late.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t even try. Just picked up his pen like I was already gone.
I stood there for a moment, waiting for him to stop me. He didn’t. So I walked out.
The second office was worse. The third one didn’t even let me finish. The fourth one laughed.
“You’re telling me a dead woman came back with a new face and played everyone? That’s not news. That’s a movie.”
“I’m not joking.”
“Neither am I. We can’t publish this.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t want to get sued.”
Every place said the same thing in different ways. No proof. No witnesses. Too risky. Too powerful.
By the seventh office, my voice was gone. My throat hurt. My head pounded, but I still tried.
“I just need someone to listen.”
“We did. And we’re done.”
Security walked me out before I could say anything else. People stared as I passed. Whispered. I could feel it in the way they looked at me. Like I didn’t belong there. Like I was wasting their time. Like I was unstable.
Like I was crazy.
I didn’t stop. I went to television stations next. Bright lights, busy people, fake smiles.
Same result.
“Do you have evidence?”
“No, but—”
“Then we’re not interested.”
“She confessed!”
“Do you have it recorded?”
“No.”
“Then we can’t use it.”
Another one cut me off halfway through. “This sounds personal.”
“It is. She destroyed my life.”
“Then this isn’t news. This is revenge.”
“It’s truth!”
“It’s your truth.”
That line stayed with me.
Your truth.
Not the truth.
By the time I got back to Anna’s apartment, my legs hurt and my head wouldn’t stop pounding. The place felt empty without her. Too quiet. Too still.
I dropped my bag and sat on the couch. For a long time, I didn’t move. Then I grabbed my laptop.
If they wouldn’t listen, someone would.
I found a forum where people talked about hidden things. I created an account and typed everything. The wedding. The confession. The truth.
I posted it and waited.
The replies came fast.
“This is fake.”
“Nice story.”
“Troll.”
“Get a life.”
My hands shook as I scrolled.
One person asked, “Do you have proof?”
“I was there. I saw everything,” I replied.
“That’s not proof.”
“It should be.”
“It isn’t.”
The thread dropped lower and lower until it disappeared completely, buried under newer posts.
Like it never existed.
Like I never said anything.
My phone rang. Unknown number. I stared at it before answering.
“Hello?”
“Miss Rodriguez? This is Catherine Mills from the Daily Chronicle.”
Hope sparked in my chest. Finally.
“Yes. I can explain everything—”
“I’m not calling to hear your story.”
The tone in her voice killed the hope instantly.
“I’m calling to warn you.”
My stomach dropped. “Warn me?”
“Stop what you’re doing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Yes, you do. You’ve been contacting media outlets and posting online about Isabella Valen.”
“They’re not accusations. They’re facts.”
“They are unproven claims.”
“They’re true!”
“That doesn’t matter without evidence.”
My grip tightened around the phone. “So you’re ignoring it too?”
“I’m telling you to stop before you make things worse.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means legal action will be taken if you continue.”
My breath caught. “Legal action?”
“Defamation. You’re making serious claims about a powerful family. That has consequences.”
“I’m telling the truth!”
“Truth without proof is just a claim.”
“You can’t silence me.”
“We’re advising you.”
“No. You’re threatening me.”
“Take it however you want. Just stop.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’ll find out.”
The line went dead.
I sat there staring at my phone. They knew. They were watching. Every call, every message, every post.
Salome. Isabella.
They had already shut everything down.
I opened my laptop again and searched Isabella Valen. Perfect photos. Perfect articles. Perfect life.
Successful. Respected. Untouchable.
Then I searched Lucia Mendez. Obituary. Funeral. Death certificate.
Dead. Gone.
Two different women. Two different lives. No connection.
Nothing.
Like the truth didn’t exist. Like I imagined it.
I closed the laptop slowly. The apartment felt smaller, like the walls were closing in.
Five months. That was all I had left here.
Five months before I had nothing.
No home. No money. No future.
And no one believed me.
Not the media. Not the public. Not even the people who were there.
They had too much power. Enough to erase everything. Enough to make the truth sound insane.
I leaned back and stared at the ceiling.
Maybe this was the real revenge. Not the money. Not the destruction.
This.
Knowing the truth and still losing. Speaking and no one listening.
I let out a shaky breath. “No.”
I wasn’t done.
They wanted me to stop. To disappear. To give up.
I sat up slowly, my hands finally steady.
If they wouldn’t listen to words, then I would find proof. Real proof. Something they couldn’t ignore. Something they couldn’t bury.
I didn’t know how yet.
But I would.
Because I wasn’t crazy.
I knew what I saw.
And I wasn’t going to let her win like this.
Not completely.
Not yet.