Chapter Forty-Two: Playing the Broken Child
Lucia walked into her father's mansion with the grace of someone who had spent her life learning how to blend in. Every step was deliberate, calculated, as if she were a shadow slipping between light and dark. Behind her calm exterior, her mind raced with strategy. Every word she would speak, every glance she would give, had to be carefully measured.
She had learned early that David did not respond to force. He responded to appearances, to what he believed about the people around him. If he thought she was weak, submissive, frightened, obedient—then he would underestimate her. And that was exactly what she needed.
Her entrance into the mansion had been quiet, almost unnoticed. Servants gave her polite nods, some whispering about the young woman's resemblance to Margret. But Lucia had learned to control the tremor in her hands, the hesitation in her voice, masking the fire that burned beneath her skin.
David, seated at his grand mahogany desk, looked up from the documents he was reviewing. His eyes narrowed slightly as they met hers. There was a flicker of recognition, an instinctive appraisal. But it didn't last. The daughter in front of him—fragile, wide-eyed, and nervous—was exactly what he expected.
Lucia dropped her gaze quickly, keeping her hands folded tightly in front of her. She shuffled forward slowly, her steps soft against the marble floor, as if the weight of the world rested on her small shoulders. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a whisper.
"Father…" she said, bowing slightly. "I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause trouble."
David's lips curled into a small smile. The daughter he saw before him now—the scared, obedient girl—was nothing like the determined, vengeful force she had become. "Do not worry," he said smoothly. "You are safe here. As long as you do as I say, you have nothing to fear."
Lucia nodded, biting her tongue to prevent any sign of defiance. Every fiber of her being screamed for action, for confrontation, for revenge—but she remained calm. She was playing a part, a performance she had perfected over the years of hiding, listening, and observing.
Days passed, and Lucia immersed herself deeper into the routine her father expected. She spoke softly, avoided eye contact when appropriate, and carried herself like a child too fragile to pose any threat.
She sat in the corner during meetings, quietly taking notes while pretending to be intimidated by the room's atmosphere. She complimented the meals her father's chefs prepared, praised minor suggestions, and even apologized for mistakes she hadn't made. Everything was calculated. Every act of obedience, every tremor of fear, was a mask.
David watched her closely, reassured by the image of a daughter who seemed broken by circumstance, unaware of the true power she carried—the knowledge of his crimes, the camcorder hidden safely under her coat, and the determination to dismantle him.
Lucia used these days to gather information quietly. Every conversation, every document she glimpsed, every casual remark became a thread she could pull later. Her father's advisors believed she was naïve and fearful, but her mind was sharp, cataloging every name, every weakness, every secret.
When David asked her to fetch files, she complied, moving through his office silently, memorizing the layout, the security measures, the timing of the guards' patrols. Each errand, though seemingly trivial, gave her insight into his operations, and she stored it carefully in her mind.
Her performance of fear and obedience was convincing. She stumbled occasionally, dropped papers deliberately, even flinched when David raised his voice—small, believable acts that reinforced his perception of her as fragile and powerless.
Yet beneath this carefully constructed exterior, her heart beat with fury and purpose. Each day, she rehearsed the next moves of her plan: the exposure of his lies, the revelation of his crimes, and the public justice he had so long evaded. She was the daughter he had underestimated, the silent predator disguised as prey.
Late at night, when the house was quiet and everyone else had gone to sleep, Lucia reviewed the camcorder. Margret's voice echoed in her ears, describing everything David had done—everything he had tried to hide. Her mother's words gave her courage, reminding her that the performance she wore was not weakness but strategy.
Lucia whispered to herself, the camcorder clutched tight: "I am not afraid. I am pretending. I am patient. And when the time comes, he will regret ever underestimating me."
She smiled faintly, the mask of the obedient, broken child still in place for the world, while inside, a storm brewed—a storm of truth, justice, and vengeance that would not be contained.