Morning light barely touched the corners of Fidel’s office.

The room seemed to resist it, swallowed by the richness of dark wood paneling that wrapped the space like a fortress. Floor-to-ceiling shelves bore the weight of leather-bound tomes, rows of gold-stamped spines glinting faintly under the muted glow of brass sconces. On the back wall, framed certificates and gleaming trophies caught what little light dared enter, silent testaments to triumphs long past. The Salvatierra crest hung above them like a sentinel, polished to a mirror shine, flanked by medals of honor—each one a reminder that the name Salvatierra was not just a name, but a legacy.

And at the heart of it all, Fidel sat.

Tall, imposing, his frame swallowed the leather chair that might as well have been a throne. He leaned forward, elbows on his desk, eyes narrowing at the monitor before him.

Another rejection.

The screen displayed a polite but firm decline, the latest in a string of responses that had plagued him for weeks. Each prospective family he had approached with invitations had turned away, thin smiles hiding the sting of her reputation.

Victoria’s fourth engagement had not ended quietly—it had ended scandalously. Whispers of broken arrangements, of failed alliances, clung to her name like smoke. And though Fidel bore the armor of age, wealth, and power, this… this was a wound that bled through to him as well.

He exhaled sharply, the sound filling the cavernous office. A sigh of frustration. He pinched the bridge of his nose, temple throbbing. Thirty years old. Already in her thirties. The weight of time pressed on his shoulders as if even legacy could not defy the ticking clock.

She must wed soon, he thought, jaw tightening. This cannot go on.

A knock cut through the silence. Firm, respectful.

“Enter,” Fidel said. His voice carried the authority of a man used to being obeyed.

The door opened and Victoria stepped in.

She was composed, poised—her sleeveless black wide-leg jumpsuit with its tailored waistline gave her a clean silhouette, while the flowing legs added sophistication and elongated her frame. Over it, she wore a cropped gray blazer. Her black strappy high heels added height and elegance, while her long, silky hazelnut-brown waves cascaded effortlessly. But there was something in her eyes, something softer, more human, that even her best efforts couldn’t mask. She carried a folder against her chest, her heels clicking lightly on the polished floor as she approached his desk.

“Good morning, Dad,” she said, laying the folder before him. “This is the report for Project Venti. I’ve also shared the full digital file with the board members through the portal, but I printed the executive summary for you.”

Fidel straightened, adjusting his glasses as he flipped the folder open. The papers within rustled crisply, but his eyes didn’t linger long on the words before the corners of his mouth hardened.

She stood quietly on the other side of the desk, waiting.

“The board won’t be happy,” he muttered, his tone blunt, cutting. “Delays, overspending… margins tightening. This is not the kind of performance Salvatierra & Co. is known for.”

Victoria had already braced herself for this remark before she even handed him the report. She had done everything within her reach to recover from the delays and curb the overspending, yet somehow, it still wasn’t enough.

His eyes, sharp as steel, suddenly flicked sideways. Resting not on the report but on the magazine on his desk.

Forbes Asia.

The cover boy—Nathaniel Valencia. Youthful, polished, triumphant.

His headline: “The Young Titan: Rewriting the Future of Infrastructure.”

Fidel’s jaw set. He spoke without looking at her.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Nathaniel was featured for leading a project half the scale of Venti… and he delivered ahead of schedule.”

The words were matter-of-fact, professional. But in the charged silence of that office, they cut like glass.

She winced slightly at her father’s blunt remark, though her face barely betrayed it. Standing quietly on the other side of the desk, spine straight, expression calm—the ache in her heart hidden beneath practiced composure. With him, there was no cushioning, no gentle hand even for his own daughter.

Especially not for his daughter.

Her father continued, voice low but firm, his gaze now boring into her.

“I expect better. Not excuses. Not mediocrity. The Salvatierra name does not bend for shortcomings, even yours. Do you understand?”

“Understood, Dad,” she answered softly, forcing her voice steady.

Fidel returned his gaze to the monitor, dismissing her as though the conversation had ended. To him, it had.

To her, the sting lingered like a bruise. Each comparison was a wound. Each disappointment a weight she carried alone. He saw only the failures, never the battles she fought unseen.

She turned, her heels echoing in the solemn chamber as she made her way to the door. As she stepped out of her father’s office, she inhaled deeply, willing her composure back into place.

She lifted her chin, masking the ache in her chest.

But the echo of his words—his comparison to Nathaniel—remained.

And it stung far worse than she would ever let him see.