He watched her move with a nervous, almost paranoid speed. Nayeli wasn’t cleaning the tables; she was stealing, her movements calculated to avoid being seen by the restaurant manager. She scraped food scraps from the fine dishes: half-eaten pieces of salmon, untouched bread, leftover risotto. Everything quickly ended up in clear plastic bags that she hid in a cleaning bucket under the station. “Mr. Villalobos, do you agree to the exclusivity clause?” the lawyer asked, breaking the trance.
Hector didn’t answer, didn’t look away. He saw a waiter in an impeccable suit walk past Nayeli and accidentally bump into her with his shoulder. “Get out of the way, trash,” the waiter hissed, annoyed at having to dodge the cleaning lady. “If the manager sees you messing around at the construction site again, he’ll fire you today.” The tycoon, used to destroying rival companies with a single phone call, felt like he couldn’t breathe. He waited for Nayeli to get up, for her to unleash that indomitable fury that had always defined her.
He waited for her to yell at him, to defend herself, but she didn’t. Nayeli lowered her head. Her shoulders slumped, submissive, defeated. She murmured an inaudible apology. She clutched the plastic bag full of leftovers tightly and continued wiping the table with a dirty rag. That image broke something inside Héctor. The guilt he had buried beneath layers of tailored suits, armored cars, and marble mansions erupted suddenly. “Mr. Villalobos,” the German partner insisted, visibly annoyed by the lack of attention.
Hector dropped the crystal glass, it slammed against the table, spilling red wine onto the multimillion-dollar documents. The dark liquid spread like blood across the paper. “The meeting is over,” Hector said in a voice so deep and raspy it silenced everyone at the table. “What, Hector? We’re about to sign.” His lawyer tried to intervene, his eyes wide. Hector stood up abruptly. The heavy oak chair scraped violently against the marble floor, drawing the attention of several diners from Monterrey’s elite.
He didn’t care. He didn’t care about the 50 million, he didn’t care about the merger. He took a step toward the gas station. He needed to talk to her. He needed to understand how the smartest woman he knew had ended up begging for the rich man’s crumbs. But just as he was about to cross the dining room, the double doors to the kitchen burst open. The restaurant manager appeared, grabbing Anayeli roughly by the arm. “I told you I didn’t want to see you in the dining room with those dirty clothes,” the manager shouted at her, his voice low but dripping with venom.
Out the alley, take your trash out the back. Nayeli didn’t resist; she clutched her two heavy, clear plastic bags and disappeared, pushed by the manager into the depths of the kitchen. Hector clenched his fists. He felt a wild urge to go into the kitchen, grab the manager by the collar, and buy the whole damn restaurant just to fire him on the spot. But he stopped himself. If Nayeli saw him there dressed in a $10,000 Tom Ford suit, the humiliation would be too much for her.
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