At 5:55, he sat in his office, sweating despite the air conditioning. His assistant, Sofia, set up the call.
“Singapore is ready. They’re in a hurry.”
If he finished in thirty minutes, he could still make it. He told himself he could manage both.
But negotiations dragged. 6:15. 6:30. 6:45. His phone vibrated—Isabella calling. He ignored it, smiling tightly at the screen while discussing tax forecasts.
At 7:15, the deal was sealed. He had saved the company. He rushed to the school—but the auditorium was empty. Chairs stacked. Lights dim.
He drove to Isabella’s house. She opened the door, arms crossed.
“Did you close your deal?” she asked coldly.
“It was complicated. Three hundred million—I couldn’t just hang up—”
“Lucas waited for you,” she interrupted. “Before every piece, he looked at the empty seat. Afterward, he asked if you’d had an accident. I said no—you were working. He said, ‘Let’s go, Mom. Mr. Cruz has more important things.’”
Mr. Cruz.
The words cut deeper than any loss.
“I’ll fix it,” he insisted. “I’ll buy him the grand piano he wants—”
“Go home, Alejandro. Not tonight.”