She smoothed the bills between her fingers, stacked them neatly, and placed them on the edge of the trash can with a precision that felt almost ceremonial. Her voice, when she spoke, carried no tremor. “You should keep them,” she said softly. “That money… you’re going to need it.” Alejandro froze, the words striking him harder than any slap. He had expected anger, bitterness, maybe even tears. He had prepared himself for guilt, for defensiveness, for the familiar dynamic where he held the upper hand. But this calm—this absolute absence of need—left him unbalanced. His jaw tightened, and pride rushed in to fill the sudden void of power.

“Are you still acting so self-important?” he snapped, turning sharply toward Camila as if seeking an ally. “See? Poor, but full of pride.” Camila laughed, a brittle, mocking sound that echoed too loudly in the polished lobby, and she clung tighter to his arm, her manicured fingers pressing possessively into his sleeve as she scanned Mariana from head to toe with open contempt. Mariana said nothing. She simply straightened her back, adjusted the strap of her cleaning cart, and returned her attention to the floor as if they were no more significant than dust.