The manager laughed at her worn clothes, convinced she was nobody. He didn’t know she was the millionaire behind the company. “Get out of my sight, you beggar.”

The elevator opened, and Julián Mena stepped out like a storm in a tailored suit. Slick hair. Swiss watch flashing arrogance.

His eyes locked on Isabel.

“Who’s that?” he asked Camila, pointing as if she were misplaced furniture.

“The new temporary receptionist.”

Julián approached slowly. Isabel looked up—meeting his eyes.

That was his first mistake. In Julián’s world, the powerless never made eye contact.

“Temporary?” he sneered. “Where are you from?”

“I have experience in reception, sir—”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He flipped through her résumé with disdain.

“Looking at you, you don’t seem like Altavista material.”

The office went silent.

“I just need the job,” Isabel said calmly.

“Oh, you need it,” Julián smiled. “And you think this place will save you? Give you stability you’ve clearly never had?”

Each word cut deliberately.

“I want to do my job well,” she replied.