POV Adrián
The intercom on my desk buzzes with that irritating hum that means my assistant is about to ruin my day.
“Mr. Valcor, your mother is here.”
I close my eyes. Breathe in. Count to three.
“Tell her I’m busy.”
“She’s already come in, sir.”
Of course she has.
My office door swings open before I can say anything else. Helena Valcor walks in the way she always does—with the certainty of someone who believes the entire world is her living room. Black Chanel suit, pearls that probably cost more than half my employees’ annual salaries, silver hair swept into an immaculate bun.
And that expression. That look that blends disappointment, judgment, and determination in equal parts.
“Mother,” I say without standing. “What a surprise.”
“Don’t pretend, Adrián. You were never good at
