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Mateo’s smile did not reach his eyes.
“Of course he did.”
He slid a photocopy toward you.
It was an old police report.
Your eyes moved across the faded lines, the signatures, the date, the name: Mateo Salazar Cruz. Beneath it, in a separate document, was a bank withdrawal receipt from your father’s account made the same morning of the accusation.
Fifteen thousand pesos.
Exactly.
Your fingers trembled as you touched the paper.
“No,” you said, but the word had no strength. “No, he told me you took the money. He said you ran away because you didn’t want trouble. He said you didn’t even say goodbye.”
Mateo leaned forward.
“And you believed him.”
That hurt more than the accusation.
Because you had.
You had been seven years old, brokenhearted, confused, and trapped between two parents who controlled every door in your world. But somewhere deep inside, shame still rose like smoke.
“I was a child,” you said.
“So was I,” he answered.
The room went silent.
For one second, the billionaire disappeared.
You saw the boy again.
The one with bruised knuckles and proud eyes.
The one who fixed broken toys for neighborhood children with wire and patience.
The one who had wiped your tears with the sleeve of his faded shirt and told you to study hard.
The one who had been dragged out of your life while you slept upstairs clutching a paper flower he had made for you.
Mateo closed the folder.
“Interview is over.”
Your heart slammed.
“Mr. Salazar,” the HR director said carefully, “Miss Robles is actually one of the strongest candidates we’ve seen this quarter.”
Mateo did not look at her.
“I know.”
That answer terrified you.
He knew everything.
He had not walked into that room by accident. He had not just recognized you. He had prepared this moment with the patience of a man who had been waiting fifteen years to make someone bleed without ever raising his voice.
You stood slowly.
Your knees felt weak, but pride kept your spine straight.
“I didn’t know,” you said.
Mateo’s eyes darkened.
“Knowing is a luxury poor people rarely get, Valentina. We usually just live with the consequences of rich people’s lies.”
You flinched.