The elevator ride up to the penthouse suite of Montenegro Holdings felt like a descent into an icy abyss. I stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin a ghostly pale, and the cheap fabric of my blazar felt like a suffocating weight. Ten thousand dollars. The number repeated in my head like a cruel, rhythmic chant.
When the doors chimed and slid open, the quiet luxury of the executive floor swallowed me. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city’s skyline, but today, the towering skyscrapers just felt like concrete walls closing in on me.
I walked past the empty reception desk and knocked gently on the heavy oak door of Álvaro Montenegro’s private office.
“Come in,” a deep, resonant voice called out.
