Chapter 2
"What if someone in the club starts asking questions?" Rebecca asked worriedly.
“Calm down. I enjoy too much prestige. Everyone will think Elena went to a Swiss clinic after a nervous breakdown. Nobody will check anything,” Ricardo replied confidently.
I didn't give up. My nails broke on the damp floorboards, my fingers burned until they bled, but suddenly I felt the rope around my wrists begin to loosen. I yanked on it with all my might, nearly dislocating my shoulder, and freed my right hand. The first thing I did was tear off the gag that had been biting into my lips.
"Help!" I tried to scream, but instead of a scream, only a hoarse whisper came out. Cemetery dust seeped through the cracks, making it hard to breathe and causing me to cough.
I knew that if I screamed any louder, they would realize I was still alive and carry out their mission without hesitation. I had to be patient. Wait until they were completely gone, and only then try to escape.
The minutes dragged on agonizingly slowly, like hours. Finally, there was complete silence. Only the wind rustled in the cypress trees. Then I began to hammer wildly against the coffin lid with my feet and my free hand.
But nothing happened. The stone slab above it was too heavy. I found myself trapped in the opulent family crypt – amidst the wealth my father had left me, which had now become my grave.
And suddenly I heard a new sound. It wasn't Ricardo's footsteps or Rebeca's voice. A dull, metallic thud—intense and rhythmic. Someone was working outside. My breath caught in my throat with horror: Had they really returned to finish their work?
“Something is wrong here… The owner has ordered everything to be locked up tight, but there are clearly noises coming from inside,” said a man’s voice with a rough rural accent.
It was Don Jacinto, the elderly cemetery caretaker, who had known our family for years. He wasn't part of the conspiracy. He was simply following orders, but his conscience and curiosity compelled him to stop.
“Don Jacinto! It’s me, Elena! Please, save me!” I cried, striking the wooden lid with the stone I had found.
Outside, there was a moment of silence. Then I heard the tool fall from his hand. A moment later, I heard the furious blows of an axe against the stone. He was trying to smash the slab.
“Señora Elena! Please be patient a little longer! I'll get you out of there!” he shouted, as pieces of marble flew around him.
Upstairs, chaos reigned. Don Jacinto, in his faded, cement-smeared orange T-shirt, was working frantically. A few steps away stood Roberto, my husband's driver, who had been assigned to keep an eye on everything. He looked at the old man with genuine horror.
“Are you completely crazy?! Stop it immediately! The master has commanded that no one may open this grave!” Roberto shouted, coming closer.
But Don Jacinto continued striking. Another blow. Another. And suddenly the stone cracked. A ray of sunlight shone through the resulting fissure – light I had given up hope of ever seeing again.
“She’s alive, Roberto! I can hear her!” cried the old man, barely able to hold back his tears.
Then Roberto drew his pistol. He was prepared to kill the janitor, solely to complete Ricardo's plan. The tension became unbearable. Through the crack, I saw the flash of a gun, and Don Jacinto raised his axe for the final blow—a blow that could either save me or destroy us both.
“Go ahead and shoot! Only then will everyone know that your master buried his own wife alive,” the old man said firmly.
### The Return of a Woman Who Was Presumed Dead
No shot was fired. Roberto's fear of prison was stronger than his greed. Don Jacinto took advantage of his confusion and struck the stone slab with all his might. The marble shattered in two, revealing an exit.
When my hand, covered in dirt and blood, emerged from the grave, Roberto sank to his knees in horror. Don Jacinto helped me out and put his old jacket around my shoulders. I wasn't shivering from the cold—inside I was raging.
"Take me to the villa. Immediately," I said in a voice I barely recognized. The voice of a woman who had lost her fear.
We arrived at the house just as Ricardo and Rebeca were having a small celebration. The library was full of inheritance documents and wills. They were laughing and talking about how they would spend their first million.
“To you, little sister. Now you can finally rest in peace, and I can live the life I always deserved,” said Rebeca, raising her glass.
I entered the room covered in dirt and dust, without having even bothered to clean myself. I must have looked like a ghost that had risen from the grave. Immediately, an oppressive silence descended upon the room.
