Chapter Three — Forty-Eight Hours

My mind hadn't rested since Secretary Cruz’s call. Father wanted me at the office.

It didn't take rocket science to know why I was being summoned. Most times, I wished he would just pass his messages through secretary Cruz, or better still, call.

But no, typical of him, he never missed a chance to tear me down in person.

I'd spent the drive here rehearsing comebacks in my head, but as I steered Salazar's car—God help me, his car—into my reserved space, and cut the car's engine, I knew I still wasn't ready to face him.

The irony of the car burned. I’d wanted to avoid the paparazzi, the public, and the fastest way out of Salazar’s mansion had been his car. Now here I was, pulling up to my father’s empire in the very thing that branded me his.

So much for fighting my battles myself.

I hadn’t even changed after the call. When Father snapped his fingers, I still jumped. Baggy joggers, hoodie, messy bun—I might as well have walked in naked.

And now I was walking into his courtroom looking nothing like the Montez heiress he demanded I be.

The fact I wasn't on top of the situation did nothing to help my nerves.

I glanced up at the building in front of me with the Montez crest etched proudly above its grand entrance. The ochre-colored facade held a century of wealth and tradition. Its elegance loomed, daring you to measure up.

The Montez Corporation headquarters. My worst nightmare.

“Let's get this over and done with,” I muttered to myself.

I took a steadying breath, slipped on a mask, then pushed open the car door and walked towards the building, checking for the paparazzi.

Despite the building's grand exterior, the inside had long been updated for function.

I had once proposed a full redesign to breathe some life into the space, and Father had torn the concept sheets in half without reading past the title.

Security stepped forward, hand half-raised as if to stop me. “Excuse me, miss, this is a restricted entrance.”

I pulled my mask down, forcing a cool smile. “Relax. I’m not here to rob the place.”

The guard blinked, then his eyes widened. “Ms. Montez. Forgive me. I—I didn’t recognize you.” He bowed quickly and pulled the door open.

“Understandable,” I said, slipping past. “It's not every day you see the heiress in sweats.”

Safe.

I'd been worried the paparazzi would be lurking around the HQ hunting for a scope.

With no plan or statement ready, it was best to stay invisible a little longer.

I gave a nod of acknowledgment to the receptionist's greeting, not missing the surprise glint in their eyes as I turned away.

The same wide-eyed surprise followed me as I made my way to the executive elevator. The marble lobby went quiet as I passed.

Once, those eyes used to light up when I walked through these doors. Señorita Montez, the future of the company. Admiration, curiosity, even envy would hang heavy in the air.

Now, they only whispered.

“She actually showed up.”

“Wouldn’t be me, I would die of shame.”

“Brazen.”

“Did you see those pictures?”

“Too comfortable not to know.”

I wanted to stride past them with my head high, the way I had once imagined myself—heels clicking, chin lifted, untouchable.

Instead, I hunched into my hoodie, my flats slapping against marble. Their stares pricked at me until I felt skinned alive.

“Straight off his bed, if you ask me,” another voice said.

I stepped into the elevator, and my nails bit into my palm as the soft chime of the elevator closing echoed too loudly in the quiet.

My stomach twisted. I almost pressed the ground-floor button, but the doors had sealed, carrying me upward toward the top floor. Toward him.

I leaned against the mirrored wall and shut my eyes, willing my stomach to untwist. I pulled at my hoodie as the air in the elevator seemed to constrict and my breath quickened.

Have you ever handled anything yourself? The corporate world is not for weaklings and I won't give my legacy to one.

I shook my head. Hard. "Get out of my head, damn it."

I pushed off the mirrored wall as the elevator dinged open.

“You can do this, Isabella. Nothing he says is going to be new.”

My hands fussed with my bun just to stall for seconds more. I took slow, measured steps toward the dark oak door, picturing him beyond it. He'd have his glasses on, flipping through papers, that familiar look of disapproval on display.

I raised a shaky hand and knocked.

“Come in,” Father said, his voice raspy and authoritative.

“Buenos dias, Father,” I greeted as I stepped into the office.

The figure behind the desk sat like a judge, working as if the day had only just begun. He didn't raise his head nor acknowledge my greeting.

His hand flicked toward a corner of the office. "Bring my coffee.”

Head down, hands pulling at the hem of my hoodie, I shuffled toward the coffee station.

His voice cut through the silence, his annoyance apparent. "Don't scuff. Walk like a woman with purpose, not a schoolgirl.”

I placed each step carefully on the checkerboard marble. Soon, I was walking toward his desk, cup of steaming coffee in one hand, my heart in the other.

I placed the cup of coffee on the mahogany desk cautiously and stepped back. The soles of my flats slapped on the floor as I did and I froze.

Father's cold, pitch-black eyes lifted. "You can't—” He froze, his eyes taking in my outfit and for a moment, he looked like he saw a ghost.

Kill me.

“This… is how you show up to my office?” He said, voice sharp, lip curled with disapproval.

I ground out an apology, my hands clasped. “You said to get here as quickly as—”

His narrowed eyes cut me off. “You parade the city in rags, and you call yourself a Montez?”

I was just out for coffee and snacks! Was I supposed to be decked in gold?!

“My apologies, Father, it won't happen again.”

His answer was to slide his tablet across the desk with a thud.

The tabloid photos stared back at me. I swiped and my eyes widened at the shots in the alley. This time, Salazar's profile wasn't hidden in the shadows.

“Unruly,” Father declared.

He took a measured sip of the coffee, and one eyebrow twitched upward. The look was gone in a flash but not before I'd seen it.

Three sugars, extra cream—the kind that coats the tongue. It had taken me years to get his coffee right.

The contradiction burned in my chest with each sip from his cup.

He wouldn't let me cry. He wouldn't let me breathe. He barked at me to toughen up, yet, his coffee order read like a child's dessert menu.

Hypocrite.

But despite my bitterness, I couldn't deny a little satisfaction at having surprised him.

Guess I'm still a long, long way from being free.

He cleared his throat and slid a folder across. My fingers grazed it before his voice—cold, cynical, laced with disappointment—stopped me.

“The charts dipped two percent in minutes. Our stock is wavering; a major client is already unsettled. That’s what you’ve done, Isabella: you turned perception into liability. And liabilities don’t sit at my table. You know that.”

It had only been hours since the post. I couldn't believe how everything goes was already falling apart.

I swallowed, my throat suddenly feeling too dry. This was bigger than I thought.

“I—I’ll issue legal takedown notices and—”

"Pathetic. You think paperwork will fix disgrace?” his voice cut me off; I squirmed as his eyes moved over me. “Every time your name trends, I lose money. Do you understand what you are to me, Isabella? Incompetent. Always scrambling, never leading.”

“I'll take care of it, Sir.”

“You’d better. If I have to do everything myself, what use is the Montez name on you?"

My head lowered as shame washed over me, and my shoulders sagged beneath the weight of his disappointment.

I told myself he was strict to make me better; that he withheld praise so no one could call it nepotism

But his words pressed on my chest until breathing felt like failure.

His eyes bore into me from the bridge of his nose. “Even an idiot could see he's the key. What does that make you?.”

My gaze followed his to the tablet. To Emilio Salazar.

Of course. As if my humiliation needed a face. His face. I hated that Father’s words made sense. I hated even more that I agreed.

Father flicked his wrist and I hurried to the door, desperate to escape the suffocating space.

“There’s a hotel project in dire need of a manager,” his voice stopped me before I could pull the door open.

My eyes widened, my jaw slackening.

A hotel project? Was he saying what I think he is?

I stepped forward, mouth opening to protest—whatever words might come—but a flick of his hand silenced me.

His tone was final.

“You’ve Forty-Eight hours. Fail, and you'll go down with the stock price.”