— Until His Fiancée Tried to Do Something to His Son

In Monterrey, where new buildings seem to rise overnight and traffic always sounds like urgency, Sebastián Chan was a name that needed no introduction.

At 35, he had built a fortune with an artificial intelligence platform that nearly every company wanted to use. He appeared on magazine covers, won awards, gave interviews. He had the life many envied.

And he had a massive home in San Pedro Garza García, with an electric gate, cameras on every corner, and a silence that cost money.

But above all, Sebastián had Mateo, his nine-month-old baby.

Mateo was the one thing Sebastián couldn’t “optimize.” He cried when he cried, laughed when he wanted, and when he slept, he squeezed his father’s finger as if he knew that bond mattered more than any contract.

Mateo’s mother, Renata, had died in childbirth. The world learned it through short, cold headlines. Sebastián lived it like a collapse: breathless, without explanations, with the furniture of his soul shattered.

The first months were a fog. The house, once a display of success, became an elegant mausoleum.

That was when Camila Solares arrived.

Camila entered his life the way things do that look perfect on social media: flawless. Always well dressed, a calculated smile, a soft voice. She spoke of “family,” “emotional stability,” “healing.” With Mateo—at least in front of Sebastián—she seemed warm: she held him, sang to him, called him “my love” with a tenderness that looked real.

Sebastián wanted to believe. More than that: he needed to believe. He needed to think he could still have a complete future without feeling like he was betraying the past.

But Lupita, the employee who had cared for Mateo from the earliest days—a 29-year-old woman from Linares, with quick hands and eyes that didn’t get fooled—saw something else.

One night, when Sebastián returned late and found Mateo hiccuping from so much crying, Lupita waited for him in the kitchen.

“Mr. Sebastián… I need to talk to you.”

Her voice wasn’t gossipy. It was urgent.

“Tell me, Lupita.”

She took a breath, like someone preparing to cross a fragile bridge.

“I’ve noticed things… about Miss Camila. The way she treats the baby when you’re not here. I’m worried.”

Sebastián frowned, already wanting to deny it.

“What things?”

Lupita was direct. She spoke of “accidental” delays in feedings. Of times when Camila demanded the baby “stay quiet” because she had video calls. Of comments like “how annoying” when Mateo cried. And of a coldness that, the moment Sebastián appeared, turned into theater: a sweet smile, “oh, poor thing,” a kiss on the forehead like a rehearsed scene.

“I write down schedules, sir. Because of the pediatrician. And… it doesn’t match. Not always. Not with her.”

Sebastián listened, but his mind defended itself with a comfortable phrase:

“Maybe you’re misunderstanding. Camila is just… adjusting.”

“Adjusting” was the word that let him lock fear in a drawer.

But doubt had already taken root.

That same night he called his friend and lawyer, Arturo Velasco, the only one who spoke to him without reverence.

“Sebas… put hidden cameras. And only act when you have proof.”

Sebastián felt immediate disgust.

“No. That would be… crossing a line.”

Arturo sighed.

“Sometimes the line has already been crossed, my friend. You just don’t want to see it yet.”

Sebastián hung up with his throat tight. He watched Mateo sleep. The baby breathed with that absolute trust only children have: as if the world were safe because someone, somewhere, had the obligation to protect him.

And suddenly Sebastián didn’t want to “believe” anymore. He wanted to see.

No cameras.

No intermediaries.

With his own eyes.

That’s how the most absurd—and most dangerous—plan of his life was born.

He announced a business trip to Singapore. Sent emails with schedules, spread commitments, staged fake video calls with an assistant. He made his calendar look relentless: “I won’t be available,” “I’m abroad,” “meetings all day.”

Then he called his trusted driver, paid him a generous severance, and asked for total secrecy. The man agreed without questions.

Next came the transformation: Sebastián cut his hair, left stubble, wore glasses, changed posture. He bought worn clothes, simple shoes. Practiced a lower, less confident voice.

He registered with a private driver service under a false name: Tomás Morales.

Camila, suspecting nothing, approved the “new driver” with indifference—as if an employee were just another object in the house.

The next day, Sebastián returned to his own mansion driving a black sedan.

He felt like a ghost stepping into his own life.

The gate opened. The guard didn’t look him in the eye. The fountain made the same sound. Everything was the same… except him.

Lupita was the first to see him and greeted him politely.

“Good morning.”

Camila appeared, flawless, phone in hand.

“From now on, you take me wherever I tell you, and you don’t get involved in anything,” she ordered, not even introducing herself.

Inside, Mateo began to cry—a cry that grew into protest.

Sebastián felt a blow in his chest. Instinct screamed to run and pick him up. But he had to stay in character. He had to see the whole truth.

He swallowed the pain and watched.

And what he saw confirmed everything Lupita had said—burningly clear.

Camila handed Mateo to Lupita like passing a handbag.

“Make sure he doesn’t cry,” she complained. “It stresses me out.”

When the baby cried during a makeup trial or a call, Camila didn’t come. Didn’t ask. She just sighed loudly, as if the crying were a personal attack.

Lupita, on the other hand, was steady. She fed Mateo with precision, followed the pediatrician’s notes, prepared bottles like medicine. She carried him when he had gas, rocked him when he startled. She didn’t complain. She didn’t ask for anything. She simply cared.

Sebastián began to see patterns.

Camila “performed” more when there were visitors—friends, wedding planners, photographers. Then she became the perfect mother: warm smile, kisses, lines for the audience. When they left, she handed the baby back to Lupita as if he were in the way.

The second blow came on a Saturday.

Camila announced a chain of commitments: dress fitting, meeting decorators, a quick visit to a model home.

“The car is available all day,” she said, in a tone that allowed no discussion.

Lupita packed everything: diapers, bottle, extra clothes, blanket, pacifier, wipes. Sebastián watched. Lupita’s efficiency was the kind of care that knows a small mistake can become tragedy.

Camila came down, checked her reflection on the car window, and got in without looking at her son.

Fifteen minutes later, Mateo began to cry—soft at first, then persistent.

Camila clenched her jaw.

“Kids make it impossible to have a life,” she muttered.

She didn’t turn around. Didn’t touch him. She just wanted the sound to stop.

Lupita offered the pacifier, spoke softly, soothed him:

“There, my love… Lupita’s here…”

Sebastián heard every word like truth being etched into his skin.

At the bridal atelier, Camila gave her final instruction:

“Don’t park nearby. Keep driving. Make him fall asleep. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

And she left.

Four hours.

For four hours Sebastián drove the same streets of Monterrey, while Lupita in the back changed diapers as best she could, fed him, sang, adjusted blankets, wiped drool, smiled tiredly.

She never asked for a break. Never complained. Never said “I can’t.”

When Camila finally called, she didn’t ask about Mateo—not once.

She only gave the next address.

Three days later came the moment that shattered everything.

Camila wanted to stop by a friend’s gated community. “Quickly, I’m just saying hi.” She demanded to leave early. Without a stroller.

Sebastián—still as the driver—dared to remind her:

“Miss, the baby seat is required by law.”

Camila looked annoyed, but gave in.

The visit was brief. Camila got out and went inside. Lupita stayed with Mateo. On the way back, the baby was restless, exhausted, crying louder and louder.

When they reached the garage, the crying turned into a scream, echoing off the concrete.

Camila got out first, irritated, as if the crying were embarrassing her.

Instead of picking up her son, she opened the trunk, looked at the empty space, and said coldly:

“It’s dark and quiet in there. He calms down faster. I have urgent calls. Put him in there.”

Time stopped.

Lupita froze, Mateo crying in her arms. Her face shifted from disbelief to fear. This wasn’t an order you could “misinterpret.” It was clear. Cruel.

“Miss… no…” Lupita stammered.

Camila hardened.

“Put him in! Or what—are you going to tell me how to raise my child?”

Sebastián felt something crack inside him. Every instinct screamed to move. But his plan, his disguise, his caution held him still for one second too long.

He watched Lupita take a trembling step—trapped between fear of losing her job and terror of obeying.

And then Sebastián moved.

He stepped forward and held the trunk lid before Camila could close it.

His voice came out low and firm.

“A trunk isn’t safe for a baby. There’s no reliable ventilation. It can overheat. It’s not a place for a child.”

Camila spun around, furious.

“You’re the driver! You have no authority here!”

Sebastián didn’t let go.

“I won’t allow it.”

Camila raised her phone.

“I’m going to fire you. I’m going to—”

Sebastián gave Lupita a minimal nod: don’t obey.

The standoff lasted seconds. But they were life-or-death seconds.

Then Sebastián removed his cap. Then his glasses.

Camila recognized him as if a bucket of ice had been poured over her.

“What…?” she whispered. “Why aren’t you abroad?”

Sebastián stopped acting.

“I never left,” he said. “I came back disguised because I needed to see the truth with my own eyes.”

Camila opened her mouth to invent something, but Sebastián didn’t give her room.

He listed the facts: the schedules, the indifference, the performance in front of visitors, the four hours without asking about his son, the obsession with silence—and now, the trunk.

“It wasn’t a joke,” he cut in when she tried to laugh. “It was real. And I’ve seen enough.”

A guard heard the voices and appeared at the garage entrance.

“Mr. Chan… everything okay?”

“Take Camila inside,” Sebastián ordered. “And don’t leave her alone with the baby.”

In the main living room, Arturo Velasco arrived within minutes, as if he had been waiting for the worst. He carried a folder.

Sebastián told what happened without embellishment. Without shouting. Without insults. Only truth.

Camila tried to deny it.

“You’re exaggerating… I would never… that was an idea… a joke…”

Arturo placed documents on the table one by one: cancellation of the engagement, revocation of powers, suspension of cards and financial access.

“The garage cameras recorded everything,” Arturo said calmly. “In case it’s needed legally.”

Camila went pale. She realized her story wouldn’t hold.

Sebastián finally spoke with a voice that held no rage—only decision.

“My priority is Mateo. You will collect your things. Security will escort you. You leave today.”

Camila tried to cry, then to scream, then to charm with words. Nothing worked. Because for the first time, she had no audience.

An hour later, the gate closed behind her.

And the house fell silent.

But it wasn’t the silence of lies anymore. It was the silence of safety regained.

Sebastián walked up to Lupita, who still held Mateo, and his voice broke.

“Thank you… for protecting him when I… when I took too long to see.”

Lupita pressed her lips together, holding back the tremble.

“He needed someone, sir. I couldn’t look away.”

That same day, Sebastián raised her salary, adjusted schedules, hired real support so Lupita wouldn’t carry everything alone. And for the first time in a long while, he canceled meetings. Closed his laptop. Sat on the floor with his son.

That night, with Mateo asleep on his chest, Sebastián understood something no success had ever taught him:

Love isn’t beautiful speeches.

Love is someone who endures four hours in a car without rest, singing softly so a baby doesn’t feel alone. Love is doing what’s right when no important person is watching.

In the following weeks, the house changed its rhythm. Sebastián learned to feed Mateo, to interpret cries, to sleep less without resentment. Lupita kept caring—but no longer from fear, from respect.

One night, watching Lupita rock Mateo, Sebastián felt a weight in his chest—not guilt, but purpose.

Trust isn’t believing blindly.

Trust is watching actions when nobody applauds… and choosing to protect someone who cannot defend themselves.

And Sebastián made a promise, holding his baby and finally at peace with the truth:

He would never again fail his son out of fear of losing a pretty lie.