Our Love Story

Office Palava

The door slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating down the gilded corridor of Castillo Manor. Sebastián Alejandro Castillo did not turn back. He could still feel the weight of his mother’s gaze on him, heavy with love and expectation, and the simmering disapproval of his father, a storm suppressed only by Doña Isabella’s delicate hand. His own hand still tingled from the force with which he had struck the breakfast table. The taste of bitterness clung to his tongue, thicker than the coffee he had abandoned.

His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor, the sound quick, impatient. A servant hurriedly moved aside as he strode toward the main entrance. Outside, the morning light fell across the grand circular driveway where the Castillo family’s fleet of cars waited like black panthers. The chauffeur was already holding the door open to the Bentley, the vehicle gleaming under the sun like obsidian. Sebastián slid into the back seat without a word, the door closing behind him with a satisfying thud that sealed him off from the mansion and its suffocating rituals.

The chauffeur started the engine. The car purred to life, and they glided forward, leaving behind the towering gates of the Castillo estate.

Sebastián leaned back into the leather, exhaling slowly. He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes for a moment. The conversation replayed in fragments in his mind—his mother’s plea for marriage, his father’s silent condemnation, his own voice raised in fury. It all felt like a theater he had grown weary of, a play performed every morning in the same hall, with the same lines, and the same ending.

Why can’t they understand? he thought. I will not be caged. I will not be told whom to love, when to marry, how to live.

The Bentley slipped into the rhythm of the city. Towering glass skyscrapers reflected the golden morning light. Billboards proclaimed luxury brands, many of which the Castillo conglomerate owned shares in. Pedestrians turned their heads when the Bentley passed, some with admiration, some with envy, all aware of the Castillo name. Sebastián opened his eyes and watched them for a moment—ordinary people with ordinary lives. How simple it must be, he mused, to live without the crushing weight of legacy pressing upon one’s shoulders.

But simplicity had never been his destiny.

The Bentley pulled up in front of Castillo Telecom Towers, the headquarters of one of the empire’s crown jewels. The building rose into the sky like a blade of glass and steel, its façade gleaming with mirrored panels that caught the light of the sun. At its pinnacle, the name CASTILLO shone in bold silver letters. To the city, it was more than a building—it was a monument to power, wealth, and dominance in the field of telecommunications.

Sebastián stepped out of the car, adjusting his blazer. The sun struck the gold of his wristwatch, and the flash drew the eyes of those nearby. Employees entering the building paused, some offering polite greetings, others whispering to one another as he passed. He was aware of their stares—admiration mixed with judgment. He had inherited this throne, yes, but he wore it as if it had always been meant for him.

Inside the lobby, the air was cool, scented faintly with polished marble and fresh flowers. The receptionist straightened immediately at the sight of him, her voice almost reverent.

“Good morning, Mr. Castillo.”

He nodded slightly, his lips curving into the faint smile of someone accustomed to reverence. He walked past the soaring atrium, past the art installation commissioned from some avant-garde sculptor his mother adored but he found meaningless.

The elevator opened with a soft chime. He stepped inside, pressed the button for the top floor, and watched as the doors closed him in. The elevator rose smoothly, carrying him toward the floor that had been designed as his domain. As it climbed, his reflection stared back at him in the polished steel walls: young, impeccably dressed, every inch the heir of a dynasty. And yet, behind the glasses and the sharp jawline, there was something else—a flicker of emptiness, of discontent.

When the doors opened, his office awaited.

The space was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city. Sunlight spilled across the polished desk of dark walnut, the leather chairs, the sleek technology arranged with meticulous care. This was no ordinary office. It was a statement, a declaration that Sebastián Castillo was not merely the son of a tycoon but a leader in his own right.

On the desk, a steaming cup of coffee waited, placed there by the intern assigned to deliver it each morning. Sebastián lifted it, inhaling the rich aroma. He took a sip, letting the warmth spread through him, grounding him in the ritual of the day.

“Good morning, sir.”

The voice came from his personal assistant, Lima. She was precise in her movements, dressed sharply, her tablet in hand. Her presence was as essential to the functioning of his office as the glass and steel itself.

“You have three meetings this morning,” she began without preamble. “First with the regional managers to discuss expansion strategies. Then with the board of directors regarding quarterly profits. Finally, a private call with your father to review the upcoming projects.”

Sebastián grimaced faintly at the last point.

“And in two weeks time,” Lima continued, “the Castillo Art Gala. As always, attendance is mandatory. Your presence is expected by both your parents and the foundation committee.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Art. Paintings hung on walls for rich men to pretend they have souls. It bores me.”

Lima’s expression did not change. She had grown accustomed to his disdain. “Nevertheless, sir, your name is on the invitations. Your family organizes the gala to support acquisitions for the National Art Museum. The press will be there. Your absence would be noticed.”

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “Very well. I will attend. But only in body, not in spirit.”

Lima inclined her head, checking another item off her list.

The door opened again, and in stepped Linda. She was one of the administrative staff—young, with striking eyes and a smile that could have been carved for temptation. Her presence immediately altered the air in the room.

“Mr. Castillo,” she said softly, closing the door behind her.

Sebastián’s gaze lingered on her. She was dressed simply, but her beauty was undeniable. He leaned back in his chair, a smirk curving his lips.

“What brings you here, Linda?”

She approached the desk, her steps measured, her eyes never leaving his. “I thought you might need… company.”

His smirk deepened. The tension between them was familiar, electric. He rose from his chair, moved toward the door, and with a deliberate motion, turned the lock.

The world outside the office fell away.

Time became a blur of whispers, of hands grasping, of heat and urgency. The polished surfaces of the office bore silent witness to their entanglement. Sebastián was not gentle, nor was he cruel; he was detached, as though fulfilling a need without surrendering an ounce of himself.

When it was over, he adjusted his blazer, his watch catching the sunlight once more. He reached into his wallet, pulled out a few bills, and placed them casually on the desk.

“For you,” he said.

Linda’s smile faltered. The money lay between them like a wound. She took it, her fingers trembling slightly, though not from passion. Her eyes glistened—not with gratitude, but with something far more fragile.

“I don’t want your money,” she whispered.

“Then don’t take it,” he replied coldly, already reaching for his phone. He scrolled through notifications, half-listening, half-ignoring her presence.

But she did take it. She always did. Because what else could she do? He was the Castillo heir, her employer, her unattainable desire. She turned away, her back stiff, and walked out of the office.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Sebastián did not watch her leave. His eyes were fixed on the glow of his screen, the endless scroll of admiration and envy from followers who saw him not as a man but as an icon. The emptiness inside him yawned wider, but he drowned it in distraction.

Outside his window, the city sprawled endlessly. Towers rose, cars flowed like rivers, life pulsed in every direction. The empire of Castillo Telecom thrived, its signals carrying voices and data across nations. A world connected, and yet Sebastián himself remained unconnected, isolated in the gilded cage of power.

He took another sip of coffee, the bitterness curling on his tongue. Another day had begun.

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End of Episode 3: “The Office