PART 2: Valeria Morales sat on the edge of the cream-colored bed inside a private estate in the Hamptons, her fingers wrapped around a small glass of warm chamomile tea, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. Outside, moonlight rested over the garden, silvering the old oak trees and the quiet stone fountain below the balcony. Everything around her looked expensive, soft, and perfect, which somehow made her fear feel even louder.

Alejandro Santillan sat beside her slowly, giving her space the way he always did. He was fifty-nine years old, one of the most powerful real estate and hotel billionaires in New York, a man whose name appeared on towers in Manhattan, resorts in Miami, and luxury developments across California. Valeria was twenty-two, the daughter of a breakfast vendor and an electrician from a small working-class town outside Fresno, a young woman who still felt guilty buying coffee that cost more than five dollars.

She looked down at the glass in her hand.

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