Stepping out of the elevator Isadora could feel all eyes turned on her, of course they saw pictures, who didn't but that did not stop her from trying to do her work properly, but it seems people would always believe any garbage the internet throws their way,
"Well well well, if it isn't the bed climbing whore, Isadora..... Tell me how did his bed feel like was it filthy like you" Camille taunted
"Why, do you want to know how it tastes like because I know those old grouchy men you sleep with can't possibly give you that kind of satisfaction" Isadora retorted sharply
"Just because you are a whore doesn't mean everyone is like that" Camille snapped as Isadora left her there trying to pick up her words to hide her shame
____
Isadora's stride never faltered as she left Camille standing there, cheeks flushed, scrambling for a comeback that wouldn't come. The office air was thick with whispers, the kind that slithered between cubicles and clung to her like smoke.
She sat at her desk, opened her laptop, and forced herself to breathe evenly. Work was the only weapon she had right now. Numbers, presentations, proposals — things that couldn't be twisted into scandal. But even as she typed, she could feel the eyes on her, the judgment dripping from every glance.
Camille wasn't just cruel; she was calculated. Every rumor she spread had a purpose: to paint Isadora as someone who didn't belong, someone who had clawed her way into the company through bedsheets instead of merit. And the worst part? People believed it.
By noon, Mr. Dalton's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "Hart. Hayes. Conference room. Now."
Isadora rose, smoothing her blouse, while Camille smirked like a cat who thought she'd won.
Inside, Dalton didn't waste time. He dropped a thick folder on the table. "Julian's project. The Alvarez property. The board wants this land for the new shopping mall. The family has refused every offer. You two will handle it. Together."
Camille scoffed. "Sir, with respect—"
Dalton's glare silenced her. "I don't care about your respect. I care about results. Convince them. And if either of you sabotages the other, you'll answer to me directly."
Isadora opened the folder, scanning the details. The Alvarez family had lived in that house for decades. Generations. Their refusal wasn't about money — it was about memory.
Camille leaned back in her chair, nails tapping against the table. "This will be easy. Everyone has a price."
Isadora closed the folder softly. "Not everyone."
Dalton's eyes flicked between them. "Figure it out. And remember — I'm watching and so is the board."
As they left the room, Camille leaned close, her voice dripping with poison. "Looks like we're partners, darling. Try not to embarrass yourself."
Isadora didn't turn as she whispered back, calm and sharp, "Don't worry. I'll let your incompetence do that for you."
Camille's smile froze.
And for the second time that day, Isadora felt the faintest flicker of victory.
___
The storm clouds pressed low as they climbed the hill road, the air heavy with the promise of rain. Camille's heels clicked against the uneven stones, her impatience radiating like static. Isadora kept her pace steady, her eyes on the clustered rooftops of the village ahead.
By the time they reached the Alvarez home, the family was already gathered in the doorway,proud faces, tired eyes, the kind of people who had lived in one place long enough for the walls to carry their laughter and grief.
Camille didn't wait. She launched into her pitch with clipped words and exaggerated smiles, waving the company's offer like a golden ticket. But when the family explained gently, but firmly, that they couldn't sell because of personal reasons, Camille's mask cracked.
You people are unbelievable," she sneered. "Clinging to this… shack like it's some palace. Look at these walls — cracked, faded, pathetic. You call this a home? It's a relic. A coffin you're too stubborn to climb out of."
Mrs. Alvarez stiffened, her hands curling into fists on the table.
Camille pressed on, voice rising. "You think anyone cares about your little family history? Your father built this? So what? He built it with bare hands and no vision. And now you're rotting in it, generation after generation, like weeds choking the ground."
The eldest son stood, jaw tight. "Watch your mouth."
Camille laughed, sharp and cruel. "Or what? You'll throw me out? Please. You should be thanking me. I'm offering you salvation. Money. A chance to live somewhere decent. But instead you sit here, pretending your crumbling walls mean something. Pathetic."
The youngest daughter's eyes filled with tears. "This is our home."
Camille leaned forward, her smile venomous. "No. This is a prison. And you're the inmates too stupid to escape. Take the money, or stay here and die surrounded by mold and memories no one cares about."
The room went silent, the storm outside rattling the windows.
Mrs. Alvarez's voice cut through, low and furious. "Get out."
Camille blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," the matriarch said, her eyes blazing. "You come into my house, insult my family, insult my husband's work, insult my chivenom, and you think we'll sell to you? Never. Not while I'm alive."
The father rose, his voice steady. "If you don't leave now, we'll call the police. Property invaders."
Camille's smirk faltered.
And that was when Isadora stepped in, calm and steady, her voice the opposite of Camille's venom, her posture respectful. "I understand," she said softly. "This house isn't just bricks. It's your history. Your memories. I know what it means to lose a place that feels like part of you."
The family's eyes shifted to her.
She continued, "I'm not here to erase that. I'm here to make sure it's remembered. If you agree to sell, I'll personally see to it that your story is preserved. A memorial wall in the new mall, photographs, names, a space that honors what you built here. So even if the building changes, your legacy won't."
Silence hung heavy. The storm outside rumbled, but inside, something softened.
Mrs. Alvarez's gaze lingered on Isadora. "You speak differently than her," she said, nodding toward Camille. "You listen."
Isadora nodded. "Because this isn't just business. It's people."
The father exhaled, slow. "If we agree… it will be with you. Only you. We don't want her involved."
Camille's face went pale, her mouth opening in protest, but the family's decision was final.
"Only You," Mrs. Alvarez repeated.
Isadora inclined her head, her voice steady. "Then I'll handle the process. Personally."
The storm looked ready to break outside, rain droplets already hammering against the roof, but inside the Alvarez home, the tension eased.
Camille stood frozen, her pride bruised, her authority stripped away in front of the very people she had tried to belittle.
And Isadora, calm and resolute, had won not just the deal — but the family's trust.