It took Sara Mendoza half an hour of fast driving through Mexico City traffic to reach Manuel's office. She pushed her white Volkswagen Jetta hard down Avenida Insurgentes, weaving between taxis and combis, running a yellow light at the Ángel de la Independencia. The morning sun was already brutal.

Her outfit was a statement. A charcoal grey pencil skirt that hugged her hips like a second skin, stopping just above the knee. A matching blazer, tailored to perfection, cinched at the waist. Beneath it, a silk cream blouse unbuttoned one button lower than necessary just enough to suggest, never to reveal. Her legs were bare, tanned, ending in black stiletto red-bottom heels that added four inches and subtracted ten years of good judgment. A thin gold chain hung around her neck, dipping into the shadow between her breasts.

She looked like she owned the building. Or at least the man inside it.

The MJ High Rise Cooperation building stood on the edge of Colonia del Valley, glass and chrome, the kind of place where men in expensive suits made other people's money disappear. Sara parked in the underground garage, checked her makeup in the rearview mirror, and smiled.

Perfect.

The lobby was a cathedral of capitalism. Chromium columns. Green and white rubber block flooring that squeaked under her heels. A row of elevators on her right. An inquiry desk on her left. Telephone booths like confessionals.

She rode to the eighth floor in an express elevator. The doors opened onto more green and white rubber blocks. She walked past a row of office doors, her stilettos clicking a rhythm that said I belong here. I belong anywhere I want.

The double plate-glass doors of Manuel's office suite slid open at her touch. She sauntered inside.

The switchboard was manned by a young woman with too much lipstick and not enough sense. She was Manuel's secretary. Pretty in a forgettable way, the kind of girl who spent her weekends waiting for phone calls that never came.

She watched Sara approach with eyes full of repressed longing, not for Sara, but for the life Sara represented.

"Mr. Johnson," Sara said. No hello and no please.

The secretary straightened her spine. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No." Sara smiled. It was a beautiful and expensive smile. "But he'll see me. Tell him the name's Sara Mendoza and I'm in a rush."

The secretary's eyes flickered down to Sara's blouse, are not so obvious but obviously peeping breasts, then backed up. Jealousy or admiration, same thing.

"Mr. Johnson never sees anyone without an appointment."

Poor thing, Sara thought. Still believes in rules.

"Call him." Sara leaned on the counter, letting the open button of her blouse do some of the work. "Tell him I'm here. You're in for a big surprise, muñeca (doll)."

The secretary hesitated. Then she picked up the phone,her fingers trembling slightly.

"Sara Mendoza is asking for you," she said timidly into the receiver. "She says you'll see her."

She listened her eyes growing big. Surprise? Fear? Jealousy? Sara couldn't tell. Didn't care.

The secretary hung up. "You can go in. Mr. Johnson will see you now."

Sara looked past her with a smile that mixed pride and sarcasm. Then she pushed through the inner door and strolled into a big, airy corner office.

She was definitely the center of attention. The charcoal skirt, the silk blouse, the heels that made her legs look like they started in heaven and ended in trouble, the kind of trouble that leaves you bankrupt.

Manuel sat behind a vast desk covered in business papers, contracts, spreadsheets, a half‑opened laptop. A cup of coffee sat beside a framed portrait of his mother. The woman had Manuel's eyes. Hard and suspicious. The kind of mother who never approved of anyone.

His gaze lifted and landed on Sara. Traveled down, then back up. He swallowed.

"Good morning, Manu." Sara closed the door behind her. The click of the latch was soft.

"What an unexpected visit, Sara." Manuel's voice was smooth. Too smooth. But his eyes kept drifting to the V of her blouse. "I must confess I didn't expect to see you so soon."

"Came as a surprise to me too." Sara drew up a leather‑padded black office chair and sat down. Crossed her long legs. The skirt rode up an inch. She didn't fix it. Let the silence stretch.

Manuel stood up. Walked to the window. His back was to her but she could see his reflection in the glass. He was still looking at her.

"What happened yesterday?" His voice was tight. "I asked you to keep Lucia company while I was working on some company issues. When I went to the park, I didn't find you and both your phones weren't going through."

Sara didn't answer immediately. She rose from the chair, crossed to the liquor cabinet, and poured herself a glass of red wine. The movement was slow and deliberate. The skirt pulled across her hips and the blazer fell open.

She took her time.

"I did go to the park, just as you asked." She swirled the wine. Watched the light catch the ruby edges. "But to my surprise, your girlfriend wasn't really interested in seeing you."

Manuel turned. His eyes narrowed but they flickered again at the charcoal grey blazer, the cream silk shirt and the gold chain.

"What do you mean, she wasn't interested in seeing me?"

Sara walked to the desk. Set down the wine glass. Picked up her purse—cream leather, Hermès, a gift from a man whose name she'd already forgotten. She unclasped it slowly, drawing out five photographs.

She threw them across the desk. They scattered like dead leaves.
“I’m sure those will explain why,” she said, picking up her glass again and watching him over the rim.
He picked up the photographs. One by one. His eyes widened. His jaw tightened. But Sara noticed his knuckles were white. Not just from anger.

Lucia dancing. Lucia flirting. Lucia making out with several men.

Then he laughed, a short, sharp, disbelieving sound.

“What the hell is this?” flipping through them rapidly. “This isn’t funny, Sara.”

“It’s not meant to be funny.”

He slammed one photo down. “This isn’t her. Or if it is, these are old. Or edited. Or taken out of context.” His voice rose. “Lucia wouldn’t do this. Not to me.”

Sara opened her mouth but he cut her off, anger flashing in his eyes.

“You know how she gets. She’s sensitive and emotional. And now you show up with some blurry pictures from God-knows-where and expect me to believe she’s out there whoring around the moment I’m busy?” He stood up, breathing hard. “I asked you to keep her company, Sara. Not to play detective and dig up dirt on my girlfriend.”

Sara stayed calm, letting the storm hit her. “Manu—”

“No.” He jabbed a finger toward the photos. “She loves me. She’s been through a lot lately, and instead of helping her, you bring me this?” His voice cracked with betrayal. “I thought you were my friend.”

The words landed. For a moment, even Sara looked slightly taken aback.

Manuel turned toward the window, hands on his hips, staring out at the city. His shoulders were rigid. He was fighting it — fighting her, fighting the images, fighting the seed of doubt she had planted.

Sara rolled the glass between her palms. "You better believe it, Manu. That's one hundred percent your so‑called Lucia. Es ella." She paused. Let the poison sink in. "I didn't find her at the park yesterday, so I decided to wait. And while I was waiting, a friend of mine sent me those pictures. She was shocked—shocked—seeing Lucia dancing and making out with several men. I had to drive over to the same party to me to confirm if it's really Lucia."

Manuel threw the photographs in disgust and turned back to the window. His reflection was pale and shattered.

Good, Sara thought. Now he's soft.

She put down the wine glass and crossed to him. The click of her heels was a countdown. She placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

"I'm really sorry, Manu." Her voice was honey over glass. "But there's literally no way I could hide such sensitive information from you. I've known you my whole life. You’re my best and like family to me. I owe my loyalty to you, not her. I can’t stand seeing her do this to you.”

She squeezed his shoulder feeling the tension in his muscles.

There was pain in his eyes now, raw and conflicted. Anger still lingered, but it was starting to fracture.

“I love her,” he said quietly. The words sounded almost like a confession. Or a plea.

“I know you do,” Sara whispered. She gently touched his arm. “That’s why this is so hard to watch.”

He didn’t pull away. But he didn’t lean in either. He turned and stared at the photographs scattered across his desk like they were poisonous.

After a long silence, he exhaled shakily. “I… I need time to think. To process this.”

"By now I know Lucia very well. I'm sure these are signs that she doesn't need you in her life. Don't let her torment you like this. No vale la pena (She's not worth it). You need someone better. Someone who really knows you. Who understands you. Cares for you. Loves you." She paused and leaned closer. Her lips almost touched his ear. The scent of her perfume—jasmine and amber—filled the space between them. "In short, you need a real and strong woman, Manu. And—"

"But I still can't believe it." Manuel's Manuel muttered. “My Lucia…how could it be? I know she's crazy. A little bit insane. But she wouldn't go that far. She's too fixed on me to do this to me."

His face hardened. Sara could see the anger building behind his eyes. Good. Anger was easier to steer than grief.

She reached for his hand and held it her fingers were cool but steady. The gold chain glinted between them she let the silence stretch before speaking again, her voice soft and poisonous. “Let’s face it. It’s painful I know but it’s better than living in a lie, ¿no crees? (don't you think?)"

Manuel broke away from her grip. Moved to the cocktail table, poured himself a glass of whiskey—full enough to float a duck. He gulped it in one burning swallow.

Sara let him suffer for a moment. Then she stepped closer, her hips swaying inside the pencil skirt, her blazer falling open to reveal the cream silk beneath.

"I knew it. I shouldn't have brought this to your attention." Her voice trembled just enough to sound real. "I'm really sorry. I just wanted to expose the type of girl you've been dating. Lucia is not the one for you, Manu. ¿Cuántas señales más necesitas? (How many more signs do you need?)"

Manuel shook his head. "Don't say that, Sara. I know you're just looking out for my best interest." He turned to face her, his eyes were red. "You've been so good to me. I don't know what I would have done without you."

Sarah's heart skipped.

"So, what are you going to do now?" She faced him. Letting the question hang.

"I'm not sure. I just need some time to think."

"I understand, Manu." She moved closer,letting her body enter his space. Her hands—slender, cute, perfectly manicured—came up to rest on his massive chest. The blazer fell open completely. The cream silk skin rose and fell with her breath. She flicked an invisible speck from his lapel. "If it's time you need, then it's time I'll give you, but not for too long though. You've always been there for me through out the years so I'm not about to let you face this alone."

Manuel looked down at her hands. Then he gently took them in his and held them. His grip was warm, too warm.

"I can't thank you enough, Sara. I mean it. I really appreciate it." He paused. "But right now, my presence is needed in the boardroom. It's better if we discuss this another time."

Sara smiled and collected her purse. The movement made her skirt ride up again. She didn't care.

"Sure thing, Manu. What will you be doing after work? You should drop by my flower shop in Colonia Roma. We'll finish our discussion. ¿Qué te parece? (How does that sound?)"

She picked up the photographs from the desk. Then placed them carefully inside one of Manuel's books—a thick business law volume. "I'll leave these with you, in case you want to have a closer look."

Manuel nodded. His eyes lingered on the curve of her hip. "I'll pass by your shop."

They moved languidly to the door. Sara's hips swayed just enough to leave an impression. The charcoal skirt moved like water.

"Sure thing, Manu. I'll be waiting for you."

Manuel opened the door for her. She stepped into the threshold, then turned. Reached up, hugged him, pressing her breasts against his chest for a beat too long, the silk of her blouse against his shirt, the wool of his suit against her skirt. Then she kissed him tenderly on the cheek. Her lips left a faint red mark.

"I'm here for you, Manuel. Pase lo que pase (No matter what). Take care of yourself, okay?"

She walked away down the corridor. Her stilettos clicked a slow, sexual rhythm. The grey skirt, the cream blouse, the gold chain—all of it disappearing toward the elevator.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to she knew the hook was set.

---

Behind her, in the office, Manuel closed the door. He stood there for a long moment. Then he picked up the photographs again. Stared at them his hand trembling but his mind was still on the V of her blouse.

Outside, in the lobby, Sara slid into her Jetta. She pulled out her phone and typed a message.

'He took the bait. Coming to the shop tonight.'

Three dots appeared. Then:

'Good. Don't push too hard.'

Sara smiled, started the engine and drove away.