The millionaire’s mother was getting worse every day, until the cleaning lady intervened and saved everything.

Ricardo was away in Cancún. Without him, the mansion felt emptier, colder. Leticia stayed close to Doña Elena all day, helping her walk, bringing soup, changing linens. The woman improved slightly, even joked—but fragility lingered.

At five o’clock, Sofía went to the kitchen. Leticia washed dishes nearby. Everything looked normal—until Sofía opened a forgotten drawer beneath the oven and removed a small, clear, unlabeled bottle. Leticia saw just enough: a few drops into the tea, a quick stir, the bottle returned. Her heart pounded.

The tray went upstairs. Sofía left for the gym.
Leticia stood frozen, hands wet, throat dry. This wasn’t imagination anymore. This was deliberate.

She rushed to Doña Elena’s room.

“Please—don’t drink that.”

“It’s too hot,” Leticia improvised. “I’ll bring another.”

She poured the tea down the toilet, scrubbed the cup obsessively, then returned to the kitchen and opened the drawer. The bottle felt heavier than glass—it carried risk, truth, and a life.

Ricardo returned the next day. Leticia waited.

“I need to speak to you. Privately.”

Later, when Sofía left for Pilates, Leticia whispered the danger to Doña Elena. Together, they set a plan.

That night, Leticia called her nephew Andrés, a security technician. They installed a hidden camera among the spice jars.

The following afternoon, Sofía repeated the act—captured clearly on video.

That evening, Leticia showed Ricardo.

The evidence shattered him.

The lab confirmed it days later: arsenic. Slow. Measured. Lethal.

Sofía was confronted. She denied nothing in the end.

“I saw the insurance,” she said coldly. “Two million.”

Ricardo called the police.

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