CHAPTER 1: LEGACY
Iris Santillian’s POV
The courtroom was quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet.
The dangerous kind.
The kind that came just before someone lost.
I stood behind the prosecution table with my hands resting lightly against the edge, staring at the man sitting across the room.
Victor Vergara.
Forty-eight years old.
Chairman of one of the largest construction companies in the country.
Three counts of bribery.
Two counts of falsifying public documents.
And one count of murder.
The kind of case that could make a prosecutor’s career.
Or destroy it.
I glanced at the clock hanging above the judge’s bench.
10:43 a.m.
We had been in court for almost four hours.
My heels were beginning to hurt.
My coffee had gone cold.
And the opposing counsel had been trying to intimidate me since the moment I walked into the courtroom.
He was old enough to have been practicing law before I was born.
I was twenty-five.
He had thirty years of experience.
I had less than five.
And apparently, that was all he needed to decide I was easy to defeat.
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a faint smile.
That smile irritated me more than it should have.
“Attorney Santillian,” he said, his voice smooth with amusement, “perhaps you should allow someone with more experience to handle the questioning.”
A few people in the courtroom shifted.
Someone coughed.
I heard a quiet chuckle from the gallery.
I didn’t look at them.
Instead, I looked at the witness.
Mr. Vergara’s right hand was resting on the arm of his chair.
His fingers were tapping.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Nervous.
Interesting.
I turned another page of my notes.
“I appreciate your concern, Attorney Velasco.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“But I’m quite capable of handling my own questions.”
His smile disappeared.
The judge looked over his glasses.
“Proceed, Prosecutor.”
I nodded.
Then I looked at Victor Vergara.
“Mr. Vergara, you testified earlier that you were at the Grand Aurelia Hotel on the evening of June fourteenth.”
“Yes.”
“And you said you arrived at approximately eight thirty.”
“That’s correct.”
“You had dinner there?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
I glanced down at my notes.
Then back at him.
“And after dinner?”
“I left.”
“What time?”
“Approximately ten fifteen.”
I nodded.
Simple.
Straightforward.
Almost too straightforward.
I looked at the transcript from his previous testimony.
Then I looked at the evidence board behind me.
There were photographs.
Security records.
A restaurant receipt.
A parking ticket.
Everything we had collected during the investigation.
Most prosecutors would have focused on the financial records.
Others would have attacked his alibi.
I had already done that.
But something had bothered me since yesterday.
A small detail.
Something that didn’t fit.
I walked closer to the witness stand.
“Mr. Vergara.”
“Yes?”
“You said you arrived at the Grand Aurelia at eight thirty?”
“Yes.”
“And you dined at the hotel restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“What did you order?”
His eyes moved slightly to the left.
“Steak.”
“What kind?”
He hesitated.
“Ribeye.”
I nodded.
“Medium rare?”
“Yes.”
I turned toward the prosecution table.
One of the junior prosecutors looked confused.
Even Attorney Velasco looked amused.
“What exactly are you doing, Prosecutor Santillian?” he asked.
I ignored him.
“Mr. Vergara, did you order dessert?”
“No.”
“Coffee?”
“No.”
“Wine?”
“No.”
“So you finished dinner at approximately ten fifteen?”
“Yes.”
I looked down at the receipt.
Then smiled.
Not because it was funny.
Because I had found it.
“Your Honor, may I approach the evidence?”
The judge nodded.
I picked up the restaurant receipt.
“Mr. Vergara, is this your receipt?”
He looked at it.
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
“Yes.”
“Your table number?”
“Yes.”
I pointed to the time printed at the bottom.
“Then perhaps you can explain something.”
His expression changed.
“What?”
“This receipt was printed at 9:07 p.m.”
Silence.
I continued.
“You testified that you remained inside the restaurant until ten fifteen.”
“Yes.”
“But the restaurant’s payment system shows that your bill was closed at 9:07.”
He swallowed.
I let the silence sit.
Then I asked:
“Why?”
“I—”
“You couldn’t have remained at your table until ten fifteen if you had already paid and closed your bill at 9:07.”
“I may have—”
“You may have what?”
He stopped.
I waited.
His lawyer stood.
“Objection. Argumentative.”
“Sustained.”
I nodded.
Then turned back toward the witness.
“Mr. Vergara, I’ll ask again.”
I placed the receipt on the evidence table.
“Where were you between 9:07 and 10:15?”
He didn’t answer.
I could hear the faint hum of the courtroom’s air-conditioning.
I looked at the judge.
Then at the witness.
“Because according to your own testimony, you were at the restaurant.”
I paused.
“But according to the evidence, you weren’t.”
His face had gone pale.
Attorney Velasco suddenly stood.
“Your Honor—”
I turned toward him.
“Would you like to explain where your client was?”
He said nothing.
I smiled politely.
That was enough.
The rest of the questioning took less than fifteen minutes.
By the time I returned to my seat, the case had already changed.
The jury had heard it.
The judge had heard it.
And Victor Vergara knew it.
His perfect story had one crack.
I had simply widened it.
The verdict came two hours later.
“Guilty.”
One word.
That’s all it took.
The courtroom erupted into movement.
Reporters rushed toward the doors.
Lawyers began gathering their papers.
The judge left.
The jury disappeared behind another door.
And I remained where I was.
Still.
Quiet.
I looked at Victor Vergara as the officers escorted him away.
For a brief moment, our eyes met.
There was anger in his.
Not because I had defeated him.
Because I had seen through him.
I gathered my files.
“Good work, Prosecutor.”
I looked up.
One of the senior prosecutors was standing beside me.
“Thank you.”
He smiled.
Then another voice came from behind him.
“Of course she won.”
I froze.
The voice continued casually.
“She’s a Santillian.”
A few people laughed.
I didn’t.
My fingers tightened around the file in my hand.
There it was.
Again.
That name.
That cursed name.
Santillian.
I had spent years trying to become a prosecutor.
Long nights.
Longer cases.
Studying evidence until two in the morning.
Learning how to read people.
Learning how to argue.
Learning how to lose.
Learning how to win.
And somehow, none of that mattered.
Because every time I succeeded, someone found a way to make it about my father.
Anton Ignacio Santillian.
Legendary lawyer.
Founder of Santillian & Associates.
The man who had never publicly lost a case.
The man whose name alone could make opposing counsel reconsider their strategy.
The man people respected.
Feared.
Admired.
And, unfortunately for me, the man I happened to call Dad.
I looked down at my files.
I should have been proud.
Instead, I felt tired.
Because they hadn’t seen me win.
They had seen my surname win.
And I hated that.
More than I could explain.
By the time I arrived home, it was nearly seven in the evening.
The Santillian residence was already alive with noise.
I could hear laughter from the dining room before I even entered.
I took off my heels near the doorway.
“She’s finally here.”
Isaiah.
Of course.
I walked into the dining room and found my brothers already eating.
Triplets.
Three people born minutes apart.
Three people who somehow managed to be completely different.
Isaiah was the firstborn by exactly seven minutes.
He liked reminding us of it.
Constantly.
He was leaning comfortably against his chair, looking far too pleased with himself.
Isaac sat beside him, already halfway through dinner.
He looked up at me.
“How was court?”
I dropped my bag onto the empty chair.
“I won.”
Isaiah grinned.
“Of course you did.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
He took another bite.
“Just that you’re a Santillian.”
I stared at him.
He immediately laughed.
“Relax.”
I pulled out the chair and sat down.
“You’re annoying.”
“You’re welcome.”
Isaac shook his head.
“I watched the news.”
I looked at him.
“And?”
“You took too long to expose the contradiction.”
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
Isaac continued eating.
“You had the receipt yesterday. You could’ve used it during cross-examination earlier.”
I stared at him.
“Do you want me to throw something at you?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I saw the transcript.”
“Then you saw the transcript. You didn’t see the witness.”
Isaac shrugged.
“Still.”
I pointed my fork at him.
“You know what your problem is?”
“I have several.”
“You’re insufferable.”
Isaiah laughed.
“She’s right.”
Isaac looked at him.
“Nobody asked you.”
“I didn’t need to be asked.”
I smiled.
This.
This was home.
Not the courtroom.
Not the headlines.
Not the Santillian name.
This.
My brothers.
The three of us had been together since before we knew what the word together meant.
We fought.
We argued.
We insulted each other.
But if someone else tried to hurt one of us?
The other two would become monsters.
Isaiah reached over and stole a piece of food from my plate.
I slapped his hand.
“That’s mine.”
“You weren’t eating it.”
“I was thinking about eating it.”
“Thinking doesn’t count.”
“Give it back.”
“It’s already in my mouth.”
I stared at him.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Thank you.”
Isaac laughed.
I looked between them.
For a few seconds, everything felt normal.
Then the dining room doors opened.
And the laughter stopped.
I didn’t need to look.
I knew who it was.
My father walked in.
The room changed whenever he entered it.
It wasn’t something anyone had to say.
It simply happened.
Isaiah straightened.
Isaac stopped smiling.
And I felt my shoulders tense.
Dad removed his suit jacket and handed it to one of the household staff.
He took his seat at the head of the table.
My mother, Irene, wasn’t there yet.
Dad looked at the three of us.
His expression was unreadable.
“I have something to discuss.”
Isaiah exchanged a glance with Isaac.
I leaned back.
“That sounds ominous.”
Dad ignored me.
“The family is preparing for a significant expansion.”
Isaac placed his glass down.
“What kind?”
“International partnerships. New properties. Corporate acquisitions. Strategic investments.”
I glanced toward the empty seat beside him.
Mom had spent years building that empire.
Hotels.
Restaurants.
Resorts.
Hospitality.
Dad had built his legal empire.
Together, they had created something enormous.
Something people envied.
Something people feared.
Isaiah nodded.
“That’s ambitious.”
“It needs to be.”
My father opened the folder.
“There is a family interested in entering into a long-term partnership with us.”
I listened.
“What does that have to do with us?” Isaiah asked.
Dad looked at him.
“Everything.”
My stomach tightened.
I already knew I wasn’t going to like where this was going.
“The partnership will strengthen both families significantly.”
Isaac frowned.
“A business partnership?”
“Among other things.”
I slowly put my fork down.
“What other things?”
Dad looked directly at me.
And for the first time that evening, I wished he hadn’t.
“There will be a marriage alliance.”
The room went silent.
I stared at him.
Isaiah was the first to react.
“No.”
Dad didn’t even look surprised.
“I haven’t finished.”
“You don’t need to.”
Isaac leaned back.
“Absolutely not.”
Dad’s gaze moved toward him.
“This family has obligations.”
Isaac laughed once.
“Then marry someone yourself.”
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Dad’s expression hardened.
“This isn’t a joke.”
Isaiah crossed his arms.
“I’m not marrying a stranger for a business deal.”
“Neither am I,” Isaac said.
Dad remained silent.
Then his eyes returned to me.
My heartbeat slowed.
No.
I knew that look.
I had seen it before.
It was the look he gave when he had already made a decision.
When there was nothing left to negotiate.
“I asked your brothers first,” he said.
I looked at Isaiah.
Then Isaac.
Both of them looked back at me.
Dad continued.
“They have refused.”
My throat tightened.
“So?”
His answer came calmly.
“So that leaves you.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
I stared at my father.
At the man who had spent his entire life building an empire.
At the man whose name could open doors.
At the man who believed every problem had a solution.
And suddenly, I understood.
This wasn’t a discussion.
It wasn’t a suggestion.
It wasn’t even a request.
My father had already decided.
He was simply waiting for us to hear the plan.
I looked at my brothers.
Isaiah’s jaw was clenched.
Isaac looked furious.
And me?
I felt something colder than anger settle inside my chest.
Because I had spent my entire life fighting to prove that I wasn’t simply my father’s daughter.
I had fought for my own career.
My own victories.
My own identity.
And now, apparently, my father had found another way to turn me into a piece on his board.
A marriage.
A business alliance.
A surname exchanged for another surname.
I looked at Anton.
He didn’t ask whether I wanted it.
He didn’t ask whether I loved someone.
He didn’t ask whether I was ready.
He simply sat there as if the future of my life had already been signed into a contract.
And that was when I finally understood.
My father wasn’t asking.
He was planning.
