The elevator doors slid shut, sealing them in brass and quiet.
Diego's heart hammered against his ribs.
Camila leaned against the wall, a slow smile spreading. Her eyes were dark and sharp.
"Well," she said.
That was all.
The elevator descended. The numbers above the door ticked down. 12… 11… 10…
His hands were cold. He flexed them.
He could still smell it. Garlic. Wine.
And underneath, the faint, clean scent of Lara's cheap apple shampoo.
The one she bought in bulk.
He saw her face in the kitchen doorway. The way her eyes had gone flat. Empty.
Not angry. Not even hurt, at the end.
Just… empty.
"Stop thinking about her."
Camila's voice was a whip crack. She pushed off the wall and stepped into his space.
Her perfume was heavy. Opulent. It choked out the memory of apples.
"I'm not," he said.
"You are. Your jaw is doing that thing."
She placed a hand on his chest. Her nails were perfect crimson points.
They pressed into his silk tie.
"Look at me."
He did.
"You just took your first real step," she said.
Her voice dropped, intimate in the small space.
"Out of that… cardboard life. Into one that fits you."
She kissed him. It wasn't soft. It was aggressive. Claiming.
Her teeth caught his lip.
He kissed her back.
When she pulled back, her lipstick was smeared at the corner of her mouth.
She didn't fix it.
"My father is impressed," she said, her thumb tracing his jaw.
"He heard about the Versailles deal closure. Your name came up."
Diego's breath hitched.
"It did?"
"At the golf game this morning."
She smiled. It was all teeth.
"The Director of Strategic Development role at the holding company. It's still open. He thinks you have the… ruthlessness it requires."
Director.
The word echoed.
The elevator dinged. Lobby.
The doors opened to marble and the distant sound of a fountain.
Camila strode out, her heels clicking a definitive rhythm. He followed.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Once. Twice.
He ignored it.
"Sentimentality is a currency for people who are already rich, Diego," Camila said, not looking back.
They crossed the lavish lobby. The doorman nodded, stone-faced.
"For people like us? People who have to climb? It's a weight. It will drown you."
People like us.
He wasn't like her. He knew that.
She was born in a penthouse.
He was born in a two-bedroom apartment with a leaking ceiling.
But he could be.
He just had to be light enough to climb.
His phone buzzed again. A notification lit up the screen as he pulled it out.
Instagram. @CamilaVentura tagged you in a photo.
He tapped it.
The image loaded. Him and Camila, fifteen minutes ago, on the small balcony.
Camila's head was tilted back, laughing. His arm was around her waist.
The city lights were a blurred gold behind them.
The caption: When ambition meets its perfect match. #NoLookingBack
It already had 423 likes. 87 comments.
He scrolled.
Power couple alert!
Monty moving on UP!
Knew you wouldn't stay in the shallow end forever, man.
She's a Ventura. Holy shit.
His colleague, Mark. His boss, Sarah. Clients.
A public declaration.
Another notification popped up, overlaying the photo.
Missed Call: Lara.
He stared at her name.
He swiped the notification away. It vanished.
Deleted.
"See?" Camila was at the entrance, holding the door open.
The night air was cool. Her driver waited at the curb, a black sedan idling.
"The world is already applauding your decision."
He got in the car. The leather seats were cold.
Camila gave the driver an address he didn't recognize.
She talked. About the board meeting next week. About the yacht.
Diego nodded. He made the right sounds.
But his mind was in a tiny, quiet kitchen.
The car stopped. Not her family's tower. A sleek, modern building.
"My place," she said simply.
"Father bought it as an investment. It's… more private."
The apartment was all white and steel. It looked like a magazine.
Nothing was out of place. It smelled of nothing.
Camila poured two glasses of expensive Scotch. She handed him one.
"To new beginnings," she said, clinking her glass against his.
"And to leaving dead weight behind."
He drank. The liquor burned all the way down.
She led him to the bedroom. It was vast. The bed was a large, low platform.
Later, Camila slept. Her breath was even.
Diego lay awake. The digital clock glowed 2:17 AM.
He got up. He walked through the sterile apartment, silent in his socks.
He found his suit jacket, slung over a chair. He reached into the inner pocket.
His fingers closed around a small, flat box. Velvet.
He hadn't given it to her.
He carried it to the pristine, empty kitchen and placed it on the counter.
He opened the box.
A silk tie. Navy blue with subtle silver stripes. Conservative. Elegant.
Lara had given it to him last month.
"For when you close the big one," she'd said, her eyes bright.
He'd frowned.
"This is Armani. Lara, this cost a fortune. Your internship stipend—"
"I saved," she'd interrupted, her chin jutting out.
"I wanted to. You deserve it."
He held the tie now. The silk was cool and slick.
He walked to the trash chute, hidden behind a polished panel in the wall.
He opened the small door. A draft of cold, stale air whispered out.
He held the box over the darkness.
He let go.
He didn't hear it land.
His phone, on the counter, lit up.
Not a call. A text message.
From an unknown number.
He picked it up.
The message was two lines.
Congratulations on the promotion, Mr. Montes.
I do hope the price was worth it.
The screen went dark.
Diego stood perfectly still in the silent, gleaming kitchen.
The only sound was the frantic, accelerating beat of his own heart.