CHAPTER 4: SELLING MY SOUL FOR A PAYCHECK

I held the pen mid-air. The gold tip glinted under the overhead lights, mocking my poverty. All I had to say was: Hey, Max, I’m not your fiancée, I’m a girl who owes money on her water bill, I'll just see myself out.

But before I could gather the courage, Maximiliano's gaze drifted from my face down to my clothes. His sharp businessman expression quickly morphed into that of an offended fashion critic.

"By the way," he said, gesturing to my outfit with a slight nod. "Since we’re getting married and you’ll have to attend public events at my side, I need to know something. Is that suit a social protest against the textile industry? Or did you lose a bet?"

I opened my mouth, highly offended. My survival instinct vanished, completely crushed by my pride as an expert bargain hunter. That blazer had cost me two dollars at the downtown flea market, I had hand-washed it with neutral soap, and sewed on brand-new buttons myself. It was my masterpiece.

"For your information, this is circular fashion," I lied, lifting my chin haughtily. "It’s sustainable vintage design. While you destroy the ozone layer manufacturing silk ties, I reduce my carbon footprint by reusing garments with history. It’s a very advanced concept, I highly doubt you’d understand."

Maximiliano arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by my improvised eco-speech.

"It has a stain of questionable origin on the left lapel," he pointed out dryly.

Damn it. It was green salsa from a taco I ate two days ago. I quickly covered the stain with my free hand, trying to keep my dignity intact.

"It’s an abstract design detail," I shot back, feeling my cheeks burn. "It represents the chaos of modern life."

Maximiliano let out a short, humorless laugh, a dry sound that rasped through the air of the office.

"Whatever you say, Camila. Just make sure your modern chaos doesn't stain the chairs in the boardroom. Sign. The clock is ticking."

I looked back down at the contract. Fifty thousand dollars a month. It was absurd. That amount of money could solve absolutely every single problem in my life. I could move my mom to a house where the roof didn't leak every time it rained. I could stop hiding from unknown caller IDs.

Speaking of phones.

A shrill buzz shattered the tension in the office. My cell phone, a busted brick with cracks shattering three corners of the screen, vibrated violently against the polished mahogany. The sound was vulgar and invasive in the middle of so much luxury.

Maximiliano looked at the phone like it was a cockroach that had just scurried into his castle. I lunged for the device, trying to silence it, but the screen lit up, flashing a text message in large, threatening letters.

The sender was Gutierrez - Collections.

The text left no room for interpretation: Final notice, Camila Vargas. You have until 18:00 hrs to deposit three months of back rent. The locksmith is already paid and your belongings will be on the curb today. No more extensions.

I felt a bucket of ice water pour down my spine. The air completely abandoned my lungs.

Eviction.

The word echoed in my head, instantly crushing whatever moral dilemma I was having seconds ago. At six o'clock tonight, my few belongings, my books, my grandmother's picture frame, and my collection of thrifted sweaters were going to be dumped in the middle of the street, at the mercy of stray dogs and neighborhood thieves. I was going to be sleeping on a park bench.

I looked up. The executive office suddenly looked like a bomb shelter. The fifty thousand dollars a month wasn't a heist anymore; it was my life jacket.

I looked at Maximiliano. He was checking something on his watch, entirely oblivious to the existential crisis currently destroying my nervous system. He had his life figured out. He had private jets, chauffeurs, and a bank account that wouldn't fit on a normal calculator. He didn't know what it meant to count pennies just to buy a dozen eggs. This wasn't going to hurt him. He had money to burn.

And I needed a miracle.

If destiny, God, or a colossal HR screw-up had put me in this chair, I wasn't going to spit in their faces. I’d worry about the legal consequences later. Survive first, cry later.

I gripped the gold pen tightly. I leaned over the contract, resting my sweaty hand on the thick paper.

On the dotted line demanding the heiress's name, I dragged the tip in fast, messy strokes, signing an incomprehensible scribble. Forging a signature was a crime. But using my real one would have been an instant confession.

Camila. A massive scrawl masquerading as a Dupont.

It was done. I had just sold my soul, my freedom, and my identity to the devil in the Italian suit.

Maximiliano snatched the thick folder the second I lifted the pen. He checked the signature with a quick glance and snapped the document shut with a sharp thud.

"Perfect," he said, adjusting his navy tie. "The sign-on bonus will hit your account in twenty minutes. I’ll see you in boardroom number one. It’s down the hall. Try not to get lost, and please, do not attempt to explain macroeconomics using vegetables or used clothes in front of the board."

He turned and strode out of my office. The door clicked softly behind him.

I was completely alone in the massive room. The sound of his footsteps faded down the corridor.

The adrenaline that had kept me on my feet for the last ten minutes evaporated from my body like water on a hot skillet. My legs turned to jelly. I dropped the heavy gold pen, watching it roll across the desk until it clinked against the base of the monitor.

I took a step back. Then another.

My back hit the wood-paneled wall, cold and solid. I let myself slide down slowly, my back dragging against the wall until my butt hit the thick carpet. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged them tightly, burying my face in my arms.

I was shaking from head to toe.

"I just committed corporate fraud," I whispered to the empty office, my voice trembling uncontrollably. "Corporate fraud and forgery. How many years in prison is that? Fifteen? Twenty?"

I lifted my head and stared at the spotless ceiling of my new luxury prison. I was going to be the fake wife of the richest man in the country. I had fifty thousand dollars on the way, an eviction threat breathing down my neck, and a secondhand blazer stained with green salsa.

I closed my eyes, feeling the room spin. When the police finally came for me, I just hoped they’d let me take my Italian espresso machine to the cell.