As Aquilino continued reading, in that monotone he used every time he opened his mouth, Angélica fanned herself faster. I resisted the urge to turn in her direction. I could only imagine the resentment that a woman like Angélica might feel about not being her father’s primary beneficiary.

“Don Cristóbal,” Aquilino said, lifting his head from the paper. “Ecuadorian law is specific when it comes to inheritances. With Doña Purificación’s passing, her portion of the will is to be divided among her siblings.” He watched each one of us over the rim of his glasses. “Heirs are only allowed to leave twenty-five percent of their assets to whoever they choose, but the rest, I’m afraid, must stay in the family.”

I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. The news, undoubtedly, sat well with all of them. With Puri gone, they all benefitted.

My mind was racing. Nobody in this room seemed overjoyed with the idea that Puri had inherited half of the Lafont estate. My eyes darted to the bulk in Martin’s belt. If I exposed my true self right now, I would be in imminent danger. Whoever had plotted my death aboard the Andes would likely try again. However, if I continued to play my husband’s role, I would be safe. I could freely investigate these people and find out who had set out to kill me. This descendant’s clause might be advantageous. It could buy me time to find the proof I needed and then, I would expose my true identity and reclaim my inheritance.

One thought stopped me: If my husband didn’t inherit anything, what excuse did he have to stay?

I set my glass on the coffee table. “Don Aquilino, you said that Puri could leave twenty-five percent of her inheritance to whoever she wanted, correct?”

“Yes.” Aquilino was already putting his papers away, returning the envelope to his briefcase. “But her wishes must be expressed in writing to be valid.”

I pulled my shoulders back. “Puri left her last wishes on a piece of paper. She wrote there that she wanted me to have whatever she inherited.”

My sisters exchanged a quiet glance. Martin kept his gaze focused outside the window—he’d never managed to sit or open the bottle of jerez—and Laurent loosened his tie a notch. The cockatoo flew toward Angélica and rested on her shoulder. The bird’s presence didn’t seem to faze her.

“But that only entitles Don Cristóbal to twenty-five percent, right, Don Aquilino?” Angélica said.