“I certainly hope not. Your past distraction nearly cost us too much. An unsuitable woman can destroy an entire empire. Do not allow that to happen again.”
“It won’t,” I said firmly.
Eloá exhaled on the other end of the line, clearly satisfied.
“I’ll be closely monitoring the negotiations. I expect results—not excuses.”
“You’ll have them.”
She ended the call without a goodbye. No surprise there. Eloá always ended conversations on her own terms, without waiting for permission or response. It was a dynamic she had established in my childhood—one I accepted not only out of respect, but out of absolute trust.
No matter how cold, harsh, or inflexible she was, I knew she always had my best interests in mind.
Even when I didn’t fully understand them.
I loosened my tie with a tired breath and returned to my desk. Stacks of documents were perfectly aligned—financial reports, international contracts—everything signaling an empire in expansion.
But my attention caught on a single sheet buried among the files.
A brief note about a project still in its early stages, yet crucial to our next moves. Eloá insisted it would be a major milestone for us in the country. I had neither the time nor the interest for irrelevant details at the moment.
We had competent people to handle it without my immediate involvement.
I picked up the paper, glanced at it without interest, then flipped it over, discarding it from my attention. Pressing the intercom button on my desk, I spoke curtly.
“Estela?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Ask Cláudio for the Dreamland report for the meeting.”
“Oh… the next one?” she asked hesitantly.
I clenched my teeth.
“Which other one would that be, Estela?” I snapped.
“Of course, Mr. Ferrara,” she replied quickly.
“Inform everyone I’ll be in the conference room in five minutes,” I added coldly. “And I don’t expect to wait for anyone.”
I ended the call before she could respond.
TWO
VALENTINA MUNIZ
The unmistakable scent of fresh-baked bread and hot coffee made me sigh in peace that quiet morning.
For most people, it would have been just another ordinary day. Not for me. Every day—every single day since I arrived here five years ago—tasted like victory. Like freedom. Like small, precious triumphs I refused to take for granted.
“Mommy, can I help put the cupcakes in the display case today?”
I looked down and smiled at the big gray eyes staring up at me, hopeful and bright. At four years old, Clara was my little ray of sunlight—the reason I could still smile even on the hardest mornings.
“Of course you can, sweetheart,” I said, handing her the tray carefully and watching as she walked proudly to the low display case. She began arranging the chocolate cupcakes with an adorable seriousness, as if she were handling something sacred.
Outside the bakery window, the town was already stirring. Tourists and locals wandered along old stone sidewalks, soaking in the kind of calm only a small town could offer.
