Lira hated elevators because they always smelled like perfume, fake smiles, and too much money. After storming out of Raúl's office, her reflection in the polished marble walls seemed to mock her.
"Tracking me, my foot," she muttered, stabbing the lobby button so hard the panel beeped twice. "Probably just another excuse to stalk me."
The ride dragged, every second pressing against her chest, she replayed Raúl's words, the way his voice had dropped low, almost growling: Because someone else is watching you.
Ugh! The arrogance and nerve, as if she couldn't walk the streets on her own.
By the time the elevator dinged open, her anger had sharpened into something else, Lira refused to give him that satisfaction. But determination because if Raúl thought she'd cower under his ridiculous alpha act, he was wrong. She would live her life exactly the way she wanted, billionaire bodyguards or not.
