The silence between her and her dad was not awkward. It was formal. Intentional. Like everything between them had always been.

Fidel returned to his desk without ceremony. “You wanted to talk.”

“I did.” Her voice was low, even. “Am I being removed from Venti?”

“You’re being reassigned,” he said without looking at her. “Effective today.”

She studied the clean edge of his cuff, the way he carefully adjusted a pen beside a closed folder.

“Because it’s underperforming?”

“The board is dissatisfied. There’s no confidence in the current trajectory.” A pause. “I’m saving your name from being attached to failure.”

“I see,” she said. “And Project Revival?”

“That will be our priority now—fast-tracked. It needs steady, experienced leadership, and Nathaniel will provide that.” He turned his gaze to her. “You’ll be supporting him. Your knowledge of our internal operations will be invaluable in moving things forward smoothly.”

She felt the sting of her father’s words, deep and exact but she refused to show that it hurt. Instead, she only nodded in response before asking quietly, “And the engagement? May I ask… why him?”

He leaned back in his chair. “He’s competent. Ambitious. Strategic. A necessary alignment. It’s time you settle down. You’re not a getting younger anymore, Vicky.”

Her name on his lips didn’t soften the blow. She hated how small it made her feel.

“You’ve already had four failed engagements,” he continued, his voice firm, unyielding. “I introduced you to men with pedigree, vision, connections. Each one of them failed—and the responsibility, the stain of that failure, falls squarely on me.”

Victoria didn’t reply. Her father’s reminder—four failed engagements laid out like a quiet indictment—pressed sharply into her chest. Each one, a bruise to his pride, a stain on the reputation he guarded so fiercely. The weight of his disappointment hollowed her out, but she kept her face still. She could only sit in silence, throat tight, words refusing to come.

She stood slowly. Her heart was a dull weight behind her ribs, but her voice stayed smooth.

“That’s all Dad, I’ll be going.”

“You’ll do the right thing,” he said, already reaching for his phone.

Victoria opened the door. She left without another word, her heels a precise rhythm on the marble floor, her face unreadable. But inside, the ache echoed.

She needed air. And silence. Somewhere she could finally let herself feel what she was not allowed to show.

Victoria stepped into the bathroom, her heels clicking a staccato rhythm across the polished tiles. The moment the door swung shut behind her, she was no longer Salvatierra & Co.’s poised executive. She was just a daughter with too many unanswered questions and a heart full of quiet wounds.

Inside, the hush was heavy. She leaned over the sink, palms pressed hard to the porcelain, and lifted her eyes to the mirror.

Her reflection stared back, flawless makeup, steady lines, the practiced composure of a Salvatierra. A face she knew too well, and yet at this moment, it felt like a stranger’s.

Her heart was so heavy she could feel it in her throat. The pressure built, a scream trapped behind her ribs. She wanted to cry. Desperately. To let the tears fall and burn her cheeks free of the weight pressing down.

Don’t cry.

The reflection told her, calm and clipped, like a command from someone she knew all too well.

Hold it together.

Your mascara, your pride, your image—hold. it. together.

Her throat tightened. The tears pricked anyway.

No. Not here. Not now. 

The voice was level, detached, as if carved from ice.

Do not cry. Do not show them. We cannot show our tears to them.

Victoria pressed her lips into a thin line, forcing stillness into her face even as her hands trembled against the sink.

Her reflection did not tremble. In fact, it seemed to look back at her with a steadiness that lasted half a beat too long, as if the mirror had decided when to blink.

Good. That’s it. Keep the mask on.

She blinked hard, swallowing the ache.

“Why does it hurt?” she whispered, the question escaping before she could stop it.

Am I a failure?

The woman in the mirror didn’t answer.

She only looked back with eyes too calm, too detached—the version of herself she was expected to be.

You have work to do. Pull yourself together, like always. Perform like a Salvatierra would.

Victoria’s chest hitched, then she let out a long, shuddering sigh. Only then did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

Breathe, the reflection said. Just breathe. Then move forward.

She drew in a slow breath. The tears didn’t fall. Her face remained untouched, pristine.

For a fleeting instant, she thought she saw her reflection smile first, a faint, controlled smile—just before she managed to curve her own lips into shape.

The bathroom door opened. Another woman entered, her footsteps echoing.

The spell broke.

Victoria turned on the faucet, washed her hands as if nothing had happened, and dried them neatly with a tissue. Without a second glance at the mirror, she slipped out the door, her mask firmly in place once more.