“Family…?” Victoria muttered to herself as she straightened her tailored ivory blazer in the mirror of her private restroom. Her reflection stared back at her—controlled, immaculate, untouchable. “In three years, he’s never mentioned a single one.”
Her executive assistant, Elaine Porter, gently suggested patience. She reminded Victoria that Miguel had always been reliable, quiet, respectful, and extraordinarily hardworking. But Victoria had already made up her mind. To her, excuses were simply irresponsibility wrapped in emotion.
“Get me his address,” she said sharply. “I want to see what kind of ‘emergency’ justifies disrupting my operations.”
Moments later, the address appeared on her tablet: 214 Willow Lane, Eastwood District. A working-class neighborhood miles away from her luxury towers and waterfront views. Victoria allowed herself a thin, knowing smile. She expected disorder. She expected lies. She expected to confirm her assumptions.
She had no idea that stepping through that door would fracture the foundation of the life she had so carefully built.