Camela gave a warm, steady smile as she stepped forward and slid the pen drive into the port beneath the massive wall screen. The lights dimmed slightly, casting a soft glow around her as her design appeared in full display.
"This," she began, her voice calm but commanding, "is what I call
The Silent Voice.
A design that whispers hope quietly, yet powerfully into the ears of both doctor and patient."
A hush fell across the room.
She walked the directors through the materials affordable, accessible, yet deceptively elegant. The kind that would look expensive to the untrained eye, but remain cost-effective and durable. Her confidence filled the hall. Every step, every gesture, every explanation carried the weight of a woman who had lived her craft.
The directors leaned forward, captivated.
Admiration shimmered in their eyes.
"You did excellent," one of them finally spoke, "but I have a question. Are you sure the total expenditure will be just 300 million?"
"Yes," Camela answered without hesitation.
Manuel stiffened. Shock rippled through him. He knew a building of that scale—seven stories, fifty rooms, six halls, fifteen offices per floor—should swallow at least five hundred million dollars. He shot her a sideways look, his expression shouting questions he didn't voice.
"Mrs. Pierce," another director pressed, "where are your artisans? How do we know you aren't deceiving us? We can't hand out that sum and simply hope you'll deliver. You don't even have a team."
Before Camela could defend herself, Manuel stepped in like a knife cutting the air.
"She's our private designer," he declared. "The Mersarci will handle the project execution."
Murmurs spread across the table. Confusion flickered over the director's face before he regained composure.
"Very well. Let's have the documents signed this evening."
Manuel cleared his throat sharply. Ernest stepped forward with a folder.
"Our finance department found faults with your previous documents," Manuel announced. "We'll proceed with this version instead."
The director frowned. "But—"
"No 'but', Mr. Gurah." Manuel's voice dropped into something almost dangerous. "You plan on paying over seven hundred million, so what's stopping you from making the deposit?"
Silence. Heavy and resigned.
"Fine. Fine, Manuel. Let's sign."
The contract was signed without Camela. Not a word was asked of her. Not a signature. She stood there, hands hanging at her sides, feeling like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Nice doing business with you," Manuel said, smug and satisfied, before striding out.
"Mr. Mersarci! Mr. Mersarci!" she called, chasing after him. He didn't even turn.
"You're hired," he said flatly as the elevator doors opened. "Ernest will send the details and your twenty percent." Then he stepped in and the doors slid shut, cutting her off.
Camela stood there, stunned… then furious.
Who told him I wanted to be anyone's employee?
She had once owned a multimillion-dollar design company. She was not going to start working under someone like a junior assistant.
She stormed out of the hallway, anger buzzing under her skin. Outside, she flagged down a taxi and collapsed into the back seat, her body suddenly heavy. Her head throbbed. Her limbs felt weak.
She was tired. Feverish. Done with the day.
At her apartment, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, exhaling shakily.
Today… she would rest.
Tomorrow, she would reclaim her name.