Maurice Miranda’s POV
I could smell the faint trace of peppermint the moment I stepped into MCC. Not the candy kind—more like the “we’re serious people working in a cold-ass office” kind. Everything was sharp, metallic, and neat. Even the floors looked like they could shame my entire life with just one glossy reflection.
"Here we go again," I whispered to myself, clutching my handbag tighter. My heels clicked with every step, echoing through the corridor as if they were mocking me. I could already feel the glances. Some were curious, some pitiful… and some, well, straight-up judging. Like Beatrice’s.
She was standing right by the reception desk, flipping through a stack of folders that clearly didn’t need that much attention. When our eyes met, her lips curled—not in a smile. More like
