Building My Life

Chapter 42 - And You Are to Blame

“Does that i***t actually expect me to fix his door?” Josias exclaimed, pacing his small room. “He can go straight to hell!”

“Josias, try to be reasonable!” Teodoro frowned, losing his patience. “You overreacted. You could have knocked. Better yet, you could have called me.”

“I don’t even know where your room is.”

“How can you not?” Teodoro slapped his thighs in exasperation. “My room is the very first one on the first floor! It’s the easiest one to find!”

“I’m sorry, Seu Teodoro. At the time, I wasn’t thinking—”

“You were so blinded by your grudge against Jeremiah that you just charged in. If it had been any other tenant, you wouldn’t have kicked the door in.”

Josias looked away, forced to concede. “Yes... you’re right.”

“Then take this chance to make peace with him. I don’t want to witness a murder under my roof.”

Teodoro stood up, signaling the end of the conversation. Josias remained on the edge of his bed, his headache pulsing with renewed strength. The bastard Jeremiah had played his cards perfectly: omitting the dirty details, playing the victim, and even convincing Teodoro that Josias was the one in the wrong.

And what about the girl who was nearly r***d?

Seu Teodoro had fallen back on the easy excuse: ‘She was drunk; we can’t take her word for it.’ If only Josias knew who she was, or where she lived...

He lay back, shaking his head. He tried to console himself with the thought that the girl must have learned her lesson, but a bitter taste remained. He had done the right thing and was being punished for it.

***

Meanwhile, another girl was about to learn a lesson of her own — one far more dangerous.

Pamela and Fabrício were finishing a snack in Saint Gabriel, not far from his house. The neighborhood was firmly middle-class; the streets were wide, paved, and well-designed. The houses were built with an almost American aesthetic: commercial shops on the main avenues and quiet, manicured residences on the side streets.

The cafeteria was a world away from the slums. It was spotless, with hardwood tables, tiled walls, and staff in crisp uniforms and hairnets. Pamela looked around in awe. She felt like she finally belonged to this world — the world she wanted for Melissa, and eventually, for herself.

Pamela dreamed of marrying into wealth, of wasting money on luxury and carrying a powerful surname. But while she was young, she wanted to “enjoy life” with her secret obsession: the bricklayer’s assistant. If Josias was lucky enough to rise in the world, she wouldn’t mind becoming Mrs. Rocha, as long as Melissa stayed safely tethered to Fabrício’s fortune.

But Fabrício had a very different map of the future. As he finished his pastry, he wasn’t looking at the menu; he was devouring Pamela with his eyes. She, caught up in her own fantasies, didn’t even notice.

“Satisfied?” Fabrício asked.

“Very, thank you.” Pamela took a final sip of her sugarcane juice. “If you treat Melissa like this, she’ll forget that laborer in no time.”

“And what is this guy like anyway? The one I’ve never seen?” Fabrício asked casually. He had already sensed that Pamela had a thing for Josias; she couldn’t keep his name out of her mouth.

The question was bait, and Pamela walked right into it. Her eyes lit up, and a dreamy smile spread across her face as she described him.

“Oh, he’s incredible. He has these exotic, Middle Eastern features, you know? Very serious, very dominant... determined. And he’s always working without a shirt. His body is so robust... he’s going to be incredibly muscular if he stays in construction.”

Fabrício’s face darkened. He clenched his fists, inadvertently crushing the plastic mayonnaise jar on the table. He was handsome in a conventional way — dark hair, green eyes, expensive clothes — but the idea of a “muscular, dominant” rival enraged him. If it was a matter of muscle, he could go to a gym. But manual labor? Never!

He signaled the waiter for the bill and paid with a flick of his credit card. Then, he led Pamela to the car — this time, without a trace of his previous gallantry.

Pamela still hadn’t picked up on the shift in his mood.

He drove to his house: a large, two-story home painted light green with a colonial-style roof. Pamela gasped as they pulled up.

“Is this the house Melissa is going to inherit?” she asked, stepping out.

Fabrício slammed the driver’s door hard. “This is my parents’ house. When I marry Melissa, we’ll have our own.”

It was only then that a flicker of unease touched Pamela. Fabrício was walking toward the front door with an uncharacteristic intensity.

“Er... Fabrício? Thank you for the snack and for showing me the house, but... shouldn’t Melissa be the one seeing all this?”

Fabrício didn’t answer. He just unlocked the door and stepped inside. With no other choice, Pamela followed him. The house was cavernous, silent, and empty.

“Where is your family?”

“No one is home,” Fabrício replied, his voice flat and cold.

Pamela froze. The air in the room suddenly felt like ice. A warning siren began to wail in the back of her mind, but before she could turn to leave, the heavy front door was slammed shut and the lock clicked into place.