They said i had no emotions.
They said i was cold, unfeeling, untouchable. That i walked through life like it was a laboratory, dissecting people and situations the way other women dissected cupcakes and gossip.
They weren't entirely wrong.
I notice everything, small details most people overlook. The way someone taps their foot when they lie. The subtle shift in their tone when they pretend to care. I catalog it all, file it away, analyze it later.
Emotions are messy.
They cloud judgment, make people predictable in ways they don't realize.
I prefer precision. I prefer control.
People mistake my silence for arrogance. They mistake my honesty for cruelty. But i don't sugarcoat.
I don't bend my words to comfort fragile egos. Why waste time being nice when the truth is far more effective? If that makes me untouchable, so be it.
Untouchable is safe.
Untouchable is powerful.
I was raised this way. Perfect. Flawless. Career-first. Character second. Emotions were liabilities. Mistakes were unforgivable.
Praise was rare; criticism was constant. My parents drilled into me that success was all that mattered and that weakness, in any form, was a disease.
At twenty, everything disappeared. My parents were gone. Just like that. Everyone i was supposed to depend on, the people i trusted to be steady in the world, vanished. Death, accidents, illnesses, there was no rhyme, no reason.
I was twenty, left alone in a life that demanded perfection, but offered no guidance. Every caretaker, every familiar face, gone. Even the small comforts vanished.
When i asked about my nanny, my voice trembling, I was told not to ask. Not to seek. Not to care.
So i learned to rely on no one.
To trust no one.
To care about nothing but the one thing i could control: myself. I perfected my routines, my work, my very existence.
Every flaw analyzed, corrected, hidden.
Every emotion denied, suppressed, weaponized.
Now I'm twenty-seven. Experienced. Cold. Untouchable. And yet, beneath all of it, I know exactly what i've lost. I just refuse to let it define me.
Because emotion is weakness and weakness is a luxury icannot afford.
-
I was driving, as usual, with the kind of precision most people reserve for surgery or military operations. My morning wasn't going to wait for traffic, for the sunrise, or for some random obstacle i couldn't control.
And then, of course, the universe decided to throw one in my path.
A woman disheveled, muttering, glaring like she had a personal vendetta against me, stumbled straight into my lane.
Normally, I would have honked, rolled my eyes, and moved on. But there was something about the madness in her stance, the sheer lack of awareness, that made me pause.
I didn't feel fear.
I didn't even feel annoyance.
I felt something like curiosity, which, for me, is the precursor to action.
I reached for my pen. Not just any pen, the one i brought back from Europe, sleek, sharp, capable of puncturing more than paper if necessary.
I didn't hesitate. I never hesitate.
The woman was halfway to screaming before I stepped out, calm as a winter morning, my heels clicking on the asphalt like a metronome measuring her foolishness.
"Move," I said, voice low, steady, and devoid of warmth.
She only laughed, high-pitched and brittle. Typical. Insane people are predictable in their chaos. Predictable, yes, but dangerous.
My pen tip hovered at eye level.
One small move, and her panic would be absolute.
And then, of course he appeared.
A hand clamped over mine.
Strong. Certain. Irritatingly calm.
"Whoa, hold it," he said. And for a fraction of a second, I considered smirking just to annoy him.
I looked up. A man, tall, broad, sharply dressed, the kind of man who assumes he owns every space he enters. Dark eyes locked on mine like he had a claim on my attention. Which, frankly, was absurd.
"You don't…" I began. I didn't even finish. His grip was like iron. Steady, unwavering. My pen stayed in my hand, though now useless.
"I can see that," he said. "But maybe we don't have to escalate things before we even know each other."
I raised an eyebrow. Maybe we don't have to? Bold. I liked bold. I just didn't like him. Not yet, anyway.
I withdrew my hand carefully, still holding the pen.
I didn't flinch, didn't apologize.
I simply slid back into my car, started the engine, and left.
He didn't follow. Good.
He didn't need to.
I didn't require interference.
The office smelled of polished wood, faint coffee, and overachieving ambition. My heels clicked against the tile floors, sharp and precise, a metronome of authority no one dared challenge.
I was here for an interview, not small talk.
Every employee i passed either shuffled politely out of my path or stared as if i had declared war. I didn't care which.
The corner office belonged to my target, a mid-level executive with more secrets than he thought.
I opened the door without knocking. He looked up, surprised.
Recognition flashed in his eyes, though not in the way that mattered. He hadn't expected someone like me, someone who cut straight to the bone without apology.
"You're early," he said, attempting to mask nervousness with forced composure.
"I don't waste time," I replied flatly. Truth. I didn't do niceties, coffee breaks, or meaningless chatter.
Efficiency was my religion.
He leaned back, fingers steepled. "I can see that. Direct. Efficient. Some would call it intimidating."
I tilted my head, a gesture cold enough to make him reconsider. "I get results. That's what matters."
He offered a tight smile. "Of course. Though… most people would be scared by that kind of precision."
I didn't answer. I opened my notebook, pen poised. I wasn't here for compliments. I wasn't here to make friends. I was here for truth, facts, missteps, negligence, and lies that would make readers squirm.
I asked the questions that mattered. Hard questions. The ones people avoided. The kind that exposed obsession, failure, and consequences people didn't see coming until it was too late.
He answered with careful precision, trying to stay in control.
I scribbled down every word, ignoring the faint tremor in his hands and the subtle way he avoided my eyes.
I didn't let myself wonder.
I didn't let curiosity soften me.
I didn't allow anyone, neither him nor the endless parade of office drones to matter.
By the time i left, notebook full, sunlight catching the glass walls, I felt only one thing: satisfaction. Not pride, not triumph, not even a flicker of excitement.
Just the familiar, cold acknowledgment that another story was under my control, another truth exposed.
Chandria Barretto doesn't do emotions. Doesn't do distractions.
Doesn't even notice when someone occupies the same airspace unless it's worth it.
And yet, every interview, every human encounter, is a puzzle. Some people are boring. Some people are challenges.
I like challenges.