Her name was Rosa.
She had learned how to make herself small.
Years of cleaning offices like this had taught her the rules: don’t speak unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, don’t exist more than necessary.
Beside her stood her son.
Barefoot.
His shoes had worn out weeks ago.
Rosa had planned to replace them with her next paycheck.
But the babysitter had canceled.
Rent didn’t wait.
Hunger didn’t wait.
So her son stood there, toes pressed against marble that likely cost more than everything they owned.
The billionaire at the head of the table noticed him first.
He leaned back slowly, a smirk forming—the expression of a man bored enough to entertain himself with cruelty.
“Well,” he said loudly, “looks like we’ve got a guest.”
Laughter rippled around the table.
Rosa lowered her head.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I can leave early if—”
“Sit tight,” the billionaire interrupted. “This could be fun.”
Fun.
He stood and walked toward a massive steel safe built into the wall.
“Worth more than most homes,” he said, patting it. “Triple-locked. Custom-made.”
Then he turned to the boy.
“I’ll give you one hundred million dollars if you can open it.”
The room erupted in laughter.
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