“Give me his address,” she ordered curtly. “I’m going to see for myself what kind of ’emergency’ he has.”
Minutes later, the system displayed the address: 847 Los Naranjos Street, San Miguel neighborhood. A working-class neighborhood, far—very far—from her glass towers and ocean-view penthouses.
Laura gave a smug half-smile. She was ready to set things right.
She had no idea that, by crossing that threshold, she would not only change an employee’s life… but that her own entire existence would be turned upside down.
Thirty minutes later, the black Mercedes-Benz was slowly making its way along unpaved streets, dodging puddles, stray dogs, and barefoot children.
The houses were small, humble, painted with scraps of paint in various colors. Some neighbors stared at the car, as if a UFO had landed in the middle of the neighborhood.
Laura got out of the car in her tailored suit, her Swiss watch gleaming in the sun. She felt out of place, but disguised it by lifting her chin and walking with a confident stride.
She reached a faded blue house with a cracked wooden door and the number 847 barely visible.
She knocked hard.
Silence.
Leave a Comment