CHAPTER 2

Alejandro's POV

The door closes behind Camila, and for the first time all afternoon, the conference room falls silent.

I should be relieved as the meeting is over, the contract remains unsigned. Nothing has changed.

Instead, I find myself staring at the door she walked through, replaying the conversation in my head and wondering why the hell a nurse with too much attitude has managed to become the biggest problem in my life.

Most people are careful around me. 

Employees watch every word.

Investors agree before I finish speaking.

Lawyers become polite the moment they realize who they're dealing with.

Camila Reyes looked at me like she'd rather set the contract on fire than sign it.

The strange part is that I almost respected it. I loosen my tie as I leave the conference room and walk toward my office, but the image of her standing by the door refuses to leave my mind.

The question had landed exactly where I intended, the problem is that I hated asking it. I don't enjoy using someone's pain against them.

Contrary to popular opinion, I'm not a villain. Unfortunately, circumstances don't seem interested in my preferences.

By the time I step into my office, my patience is already wearing thin. The estate review starts in twelve days.

Twelve.

Not next month, not next year.

Twelve days.

If everything goes according to plan, the transfer of several family-controlled assets will finally be completed. If it doesn't, the board gains leverage, outside investors gain influence, and years of work become vulnerable to people who care more about profits than responsibility.

Normally, I'd welcome a fight but this one is different because the only obstacle standing between me and the outcome I've spent years building is an eighty-three-year-old man who enjoys treating my life like a chessboard.

Almost as if summoned by the thought, the office door opens.

I don't bother looking up from the documents on my desk. "Most people knock."

"Most people aren't responsible for changing your diapers."

I close my eyes.

Of course.

My grandfather.

When I finally look up, Santiago Vega is already helping himself to a seat across from me, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"What do you want?" I ask, leaning back in my chair. His smile widens. "To spend time with my favorite grandson."

"Your only grandson."

"That doesn't make the statement less true."

I resist the urge to throw something at him. His gaze drifts toward the empty chair across my desk before returning to me. "The nurse left."

The fact that he sounds amused immediately puts me on edge.

"Congratulations," I say dryly. "Your observation skills remain exceptional."

"How did it go?"

I almost laugh.

Not because anything is funny, but because the answer is painfully obvious.

"Terribly."

His smile grows. That alone tells me everything I need to know. Most people would be disappointed if their plan failed.

My grandfather treats failure like entertainment. "Then why do you look worried?" he asks, studying me with the same sharp eyes that built an empire from nothing.

Because she didn't laugh and walk away. Because she hesitated. Because for a few seconds, after seeing the settlement amount, she actually considered it.

I keep those thoughts to myself. "They're called responsibilities. You should try them sometime."

His laugh echoes through the office. "You inherited my company, Alejandro. Not my sense of humor."

"I got the worse deal."

"Debatable."

The smile slowly leaves his face. Mine disappeared years ago. "She hasn't said no."

I feel irritation crawl up my spine. "Actually, she did."

"No." The confidence in his voice immediately annoys me. "No?"

"She rejected the situation," he says calmly. "She hasn't rejected the offer."

I hate that distinction because I know exactly what he means.

Camila hates me, she hates the company and she hates everything connected to this arrangement but none of that changes the fact that her mother is sick.

None of it changes the bills or the treatments or the impossible choices waiting for her.

My grandfather folds his hands together. "Desperate people don't have the luxury of choosing ideal solutions."

"She's not desperate." The lie sounds weak even to me.

His eyebrows rise.

Neither of us believes it.

The silence stretches between us before he finally says, "I investigated her."

The words hit hard enough that I sit up straighter. "You did what?"

"I investigated her."

Anger arrives instantly. "What the hell is wrong with you?" I demand, pushing away from my desk. "You had absolutely no right."

His expression remains completely unchanged. "I wanted information."

"You invaded her privacy."

"I gathered facts."

The casual way he says it only makes things worse. I move toward the window before I do something stupid like argue with an eighty-three-year-old man again.

"Tell me you didn't contact her."

"I didn't."

"Her family?"

"No."

"Her employer?"

"No."

Some of the tension eases. Then his next words erase it. "I spoke with her lawyer."

I turn around so fast my chair nearly tips over. "You what?"

His expression suggests he doesn't understand why I'm upset. That makes two of us because I don't fully understand it either.

I barely know Camila. I've met her twice, yet the thought of her discovering that my grandfather has been digging through her life makes me irrationally angry.

"Relax," he says.

"Don't tell me to relax."

"Then stop acting like I burned down her house."

I drag a hand through my hair, already regretting this conversation. "Why are you so interested in her?"

For the first time, his expression softens. Not much but just enough to make me pay attention. "Because she's real."

The answer catches me off guard. "What does that mean?"

"It means she doesn't care who you are."

I open my mouth to argue then stop because unfortunately, he's right.

Camila doesn't care about the money or the status or the name. She looked at me and saw the man connected to her mother's suffering.

"She reminds me of your grandmother," he continues.

The comparison surprises me enough that I don't respond immediately. My grandmother had been the only person capable of winning arguments against Santiago Vega.

A terrifying achievement. His smile becomes almost nostalgic. "Strong women have always been your weakness."

"I don't have weaknesses."

"That's the most ridiculous thing you've said all day."

The conversation dies there.

A few moments later, he stands and straightens his jacket. Thank God, as he reaches the door, he pauses and glances back at me. "She'll agree."

The certainty in his voice irritates me enough that I fold my arms across my chest. "You seem awfully confident for someone making decisions about a woman you've met exactly once."

His smile returns slowly. "Because desperation always wins." The door closes behind him.

I stare at it for several seconds before looking away. I want to believe he's wrong. I want to believe Camila Reyes walks away and never comes back.

That would certainly make things simpler.

The problem is that life stopped being simple a long time ago.

My phone rings, the sound cuts through the silence.

Unknown number. I almost ignore it before answering. "This is Alejandro Vega."

"Mr. Vega?" a woman's voice asks, sounding professional but tense. "I'm calling from St. Matthew's Hospital regarding Maria Reyes."

Every thought in my head immediately stops. I straighten in my chair. "What happened?"

There's a brief pause on the other end of the line, and something about that hesitation immediately puts me on edge.

Then the woman takes a breath. "Her condition has deteriorated much faster than expected, and the attending physician believes her daughter needs to be informed immediately."

My grip tightens around the phone. "Does Camila know?"

Another pause and this one feels worse. "No," the woman says quietly. "And that's the issue."