The trap is readied.

Isabella, seated behind her father’s grand desk in the presidential office, dialed Romero’s secure number. Her hand was steady, though her heart pounded. He picked up on the third ring, the faint crackle of the line barely masking his slimy, overconfident voice when he answered.

“Little princess,” he sneered, the affectionate nickname laced with mockery. “I assume this is not a social call, or it could have waited until the funeral."

Isabella let her voice falter, weaving a performance of vulnerability. “You were right, I can't do this. I can't hold the country together. I need your help, Secretary. Please."

She faked a choked sob, and continued, "I tried to go to Serrano, but he would rather throw me to his men to have their way with me than help me. He says I'm a failure, a stain to my father's legacy. I've went to Valdes, and he had me thrown out. Carlos' just a bastard lecher that passed me around his guests like a party favor. Even my mother's friends don't want anything to do with me. I'm alone."

She let another fake sob escape. "Please, I can't do this anymore. They've turned on me. Everyone's turning against me. I'm so alone."

There was a pause, and then a low, satisfied chuckle. “You've made a wise decision coming to me, little princess. I'll be at the Palacio in an hour. Dress nicely."

Isabella hung up, her shoulders sagging in relief. She had him, hook, line, and sinker. She turned to Valdes, who had stood behind her motionless throughout the call.

“He took the bait,” she smiled.