"Ah, Camalina! You scared me," Camila gasped, pressing a hand to her chest as she turned sharply from the kitchen counter.
"Sorry, Mama," Camalina said with a playful grin, laughter dancing in her eyes. "I just wanted to see that reaction on your face."
She burst into a small fit of giggles, clearly proud of herself.
Camila shook her head, trying to hide her smile as she wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. "This girl," she muttered affectionately. "Go to the dining room. I'll be there in a minute, okay?"
"Okay, Mommy," Camalina replied cheerfully before skipping out of the kitchen.
The dining room was warm and familiar, filled with the soft glow of morning light slipping through the curtains.
Her father, Alex, sat at the head of the table, already dressed for work, a newspaper folded neatly beside his plate.
Across from him sat Scott, her younger brother—small, bright-eyed, and always full of life.
"Good morning, Sister," Scott said happily, his voice ringing with innocence.
Camalina smiled instantly. "Good morning, cutie pie." She reached over and gently pinched his cheek. "How are you doing today? Do you think today will be a good day?"
Scott nodded with absolute confidence. "Yes, Sister. By God's grace, it will be a good day."
She paused for a moment, then gave a small nod. "I really hope so."
"Good morning, Father," she said, turning toward Alex.
"Good morning, my daughter," Alex replied, looking up at her over his glasses. His voice was calm but carried authority. "How was your sleep?"
"It was fine," she answered.
"You know you have to look for a job today, right?" he added almost immediately.
Camalina sighed inwardly but kept her expression respectful. "Yes, Father. I'm going to MX Company to submit my files."
Alex nodded. "Good. You're not getting any younger, Camalina. A stable job is important."
Here we go again, she thought bitterly. I haven't even eaten breakfast and it's already work, job, job. If it's not that, then it's marriage.
Her appetite vanished as the familiar pressure settled in her chest.
Oh God, help me.
"Let's eat now. Everything is ready," Camila announced as she entered the dining room carrying the last dish.
Breakfast passed quietly. The clinking of cutlery filled the silence, broken only by Scott's cheerful chatter about school. Soon after, chairs scraped against the floor as everyone stood.
Scott grabbed his backpack. "Bye, Sister! Bye, Mom!"
"Have a good day at school," Camalina said, kissing his forehead.
Alex picked up his briefcase. "I'll be late tonight," he said before leaving.
The door closed behind him, and the house grew calmer.
Only Camalina and her mother remained, seated in the parlor. The morning sun filtered in softly, casting gentle shadows across the room.
Camila studied her daughter closely, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the quiet sadness she tried to hide.
"My girl," Camila said gently, reaching for Camalina's hand. "Don't worry about what your father said, okay? You know how he is.
Just go and submit your files. I wish you all the best, my dear."
Camalina sighed, squeezing her mother's hand. "No, Mom. It's okay. I understand him. This isn't his first time—especially after I lost my last job."
Her mind drifted back to Biglace Company, where she had worked as a secretary. She had given it her all, believing it was finally her chance to build a future.
Losing that job had crushed her more than she ever admitted.
"I just feel tired sometimes," she whispered. "Like I'm running, but not moving forward."
Camila pulled her into a warm embrace.
"Life isn't a race, my child. What is meant for you will never miss you."
Camalina nodded, holding onto those words as if they were her last hope.
Meanwhile, in another city far away…
A massive mansion stood tall behind iron gates, its presence commanding respect and fear. Inside, the silence was heavy—almost oppressive.
In a private study, a man sat alone behind a large mahogany desk.
He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that hugged his broad frame effortlessly. Polished black leather shoes reflected the dim light of the room.
His naturally blue-black hair was neatly combed back, though a few rebellious strands fell over the left side of his forehead, giving him a dangerously handsome look.
Round glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, partially hiding his dark eyes—eyes that had seen too much and trusted too little.
The study was filled with shelves of expensive books, awards, and framed documents—silent evidence of power, wealth, and influence.
A single glass of whiskey sat untouched beside his hand.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, deep in thought.
Everything was under control.
At least, that was what the world believed.
A knock echoed through the room.
"Enter," he said coldly.
A man in a black suit stepped in, bowing slightly. "Sir, the documents you requested."
He took them without a word, his eyes scanning the pages slowly. Somewhere within those papers lay a name, a decision, a turning point.
Outside, the city moved on—unaware that lives were about to intersect, and destinies long buried were beginning to stir.
The man closed the file and looked up, his gaze sharp and unreadable.