You Are Still Mine

​CHAPTER 1​The sound of the alarm clock isn’t a suggestion; it’s a sentence. At 6:00 AM, its metallic buzz reminds me that my life hangs by a thread—or rather, by a phone call that I still find hard to believe I actually received. I get out of bed, feeling the Queens cold seeping through the cracks in the window. My apartment is small, noisy, and smells of that cheap coffee which is the only thing my budget allows after a three-month dry spell of unemployment.​While I shower, I try to soothe the trembling in my hands. “You can do this, Camila. It’s just a receptionist job,” I repeat to myself. But I know it’s so much more than that. It’s the light at the end of a dark tunnel that began a year ago when my father died, leaving my mother, my twin sisters, and me a mountain of debt and a hollow space in my chest that I can't seem to fill. As the oldest sister, it’s my duty to be the pillar, even though I feel like my own foundations are crumbling.​I put on my best pencil skirt—the one

​CHAPTER 3​I am thrown off by her bluntness, but I kneel beside her without hesitation anyway. For the next five minutes, both of us are searching for the damn ring among the furniture legs. Finally, my eyes catch a metallic glint near the corner of the rug.​“Here it is!” I say, reaching out to pick it up.​It’s a massive diamond surrounded by sapphires. As I hand it over, I notice something that makes me furrow my brow: Susana has a very distinct ring mark on her finger, as if she never takes it off, which makes it strange that it would just slip off like that. Furthermore, her lipstick is smudged at the corner of her mouth and her hair is dangerously messy at the nape of her neck. It’s obvious that searching for the ring is just an excuse to cover up whatever she was doing before I arrived, but I decide to keep quiet. It’s none of my business and, honestly, I like Susana.​“You are my lifesaver!” Susana slips the ring back on and fixes her hair in front of a small mirror. “Alright

CHAPTER 5​I nod, making a mental note of everything. She approaches me again, this time stopping in front of the massive window overlooking the New York skyline. The sunlight hits her silhouette, casting an almost celestial aura around her black hair, but I know there is nothing angelic about her—at least, not from what I’ve heard.​“Come closer,” she orders without turning around.​I walk toward her, stopping a step away. From the 49th floor, the city looks tiny—a model made of concrete and haste.​“Look down, Camila. Everything you see—every light, every building bearing the seal of a publishing house—is either competition, or it’s mine. And I have no intention of losing a single inch of what belongs to me. Do you know what happens to those who can’t keep up with the pace?”​“They get left behind,” I whisper.​“They sink,” she corrects me, spinning around to face me once more. “And you are in a very precarious position. You are here by a fluke of fate and Susana’s insistence, but t

​CHAPTER 7​I freeze right where I stand. Assisting the editorial director is one thing, but manual labor is something entirely different.​“To the archives?” My voice sounds firmer than I expect. “I thought my contract specified executive assistant duties on the main floor, Ms. Murphy.”​Amy leans back in her leather chair, interlacing her long fingers. A minimal, almost imperceptible smirk emerges at the corner of her lips.​“Your contract specifies that you report directly to me, Camila. If I decide that your priority today is the dead archives, then that is your job. Or does organizing old paper offend your sensibilities?”​Her condescending tone makes my blood boil; a spark of dignified anger replaces any lingering trace of timidez.​“I’ll do it,” I reply coldly, holding her gaze until she drops her eyes back down to her screen.​“Good. Dismissed.”​I dig my nails into my palms and walk out of her office.​The underground warehouse is a massive, cold, and dimly lit space where th

​CHAPTER 9​Amy steps so close that I can see her pupils dilating. Her hands leave her pockets and rest on the counter, one on each side of my body, trapping me. This could easily be considered workplace harassment. And yet, I remain silent. Through it all, her perfume envelops me, but this time it isn't comforting; it’s aggressive.​“I don't care who started it,” she hisses near my face. “In this building, you are my secretary. My employee. And I will not tolerate you playing the victim or seeking attention from mediocre men who have no idea what they are touching. Is that clear to you?”​Her face is millimeters from mine. I can see the vein pulsing in her neck and the way her lips tighten. This isn't normal jealousy; it’s the jealousy of an owner over a valuable piece of property. And the most disturbing part of all is that, beneath my indignation, I feel a spark of pleasure at her possessiveness. My treacherous body responds to her proximity, and my eyes involuntarily drop to her m