The air conditioning in the Mercedes-Benz kept the world at an artificially perfect 20 degrees Celsius, while outside, sweltered under the humid heat of a Friday afternoon. Mauricio del Valle, CEO of Grupo Inversiones Globales, reviewed the stocks on his tablet with the same coldness with which he had built his empire: no emotion, just results.
“Sir, traffic on Reforma is impossible due to a demonstration. We’re going to have to detour through the side streets,” announced Roberto, his driver and head of security for the past fifteen years.
Mauricio didn’t even look up.
“Do what you have to do, Roberto. Just make sure he makes it to the dinner with the Japanese partners. They don’t tolerate lateness.”
The black, armored car turned smoothly, entering an area Mauricio didn’t usually frequent. Potholed streets, street food stalls, and the vibrant chaos of real life—the life he observed from the heights of his skyscraper in Santa Fe.
The traffic light turned red at a particularly busy corner. Mauricio sighed, locked his tablet, and looked out the tinted window. It was then that time, that resource he thought he controlled, suddenly stopped.
On the sidewalk, under the worn awning of a grocery store, there were four girls.
Not one, not two. Four.
They looked to be about nine years old. They wore clothes that had clearly seen better days, either too big or painstakingly mended. They sat on plastic crates, selling chewing gum and small bouquets of wilted flowers. But it wasn’t their poverty that made Mauricio’s heart stop beating for a second.
It was their faces.
They were identical. Four peas in a pod. And not only were they identical to each other; they were identical to her.
They had the same wavy brown hair that shimmered in the sun. The same delicate chin shape. And when one of them glanced up at the luxury car, Mauricio felt a physical blow to his chest: those eyes. They were his eyes. A deep emerald green, flecked with gold, a genetic rarity possessed only by the Del Valle family.
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