Her name is Marta, and she wears authority like a brooch pinned too tightly to her blouse. “Camila,” she says, not unkindly but not warmly either, “Mr. Villaseñor wants to see you in Conference B.”
Your heartbeat stumbles.
You stand so quickly the spray bottle on your cart rattles. “Did he say why?”
Marta lifts one shoulder. “He doesn’t usually explain himself to me.”
That answer follows you all the way down the hallway.
Conference B is one of the smaller executive rooms, though in your world there is nothing small about a space with walnut paneling, floor-to-ceiling windows, and chairs soft enough to feel like a private insult. When you step inside, Alejandro is standing near the glass, jacket off, tie loosened slightly, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug that probably cost more than your week’s groceries.
He turns when he hears the door.
For a second neither of you speaks.
In daylight, in this setting, last evening feels almost impossible. It is as though the man in your doorway and the man in this office belong to different species. Here he looks exactly like the magazine covers and business articles. Controlled. Expensive. Untouchable. But when he meets your eyes, you see the same unsettled sincerity from yesterday, and that disorients you more than arrogance would have.
“You came,” he says.
