Patricia kept wiping the glass, pretending not to notice how her pulse had quickened. She told herself she was imagining things. Told herself curiosity was a luxury she couldn’t afford. Yet her gaze returned again and again to that envelope, pulled by a quiet intuition she didn’t fully trust—the feeling that life sometimes tests people not with open doors, but with carefully disguised traps.
She was twenty-three, and for two years she had cleaned offices in one of Mexico City’s tallest corporate towers. She’d mastered the art of invisibility: moving softly, never interrupting, shrinking herself so others wouldn’t feel inconvenienced by her existence. She also learned how to read people without speaking. Some walked past as if she were air. Some looked at her the way people look at furniture they didn’t choose themselves. And a rare few—very rare—looked at her like she was human.
Sebastián Vargas was not one of those few.
He entered the office just as Patricia folded her cloth, his presence announced by expensive cologne and confidence sharpened to arrogance. Thirty years old. Three companies under his name. A last name that opened doors without knocking. His smile was polished, bright—and utterly cold.
“Patricia,” he said, adjusting his silk tie, “I need a moment.”
She turned, cloth still in her hands, and met his eyes briefly—long enough to be respectful, not long enough to invite disrespect.
“Yes, Mr. Vargas.”
He reached for the gold envelope and placed it in her hands with a theatrical gentleness.
