Ricardo Almeida didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to. At thirty-eight, he had built such immense wealth that people in the city spoke his name with both admiration and fear. Owner of companies, properties, and a mansion where nothing was ever missing, he was used to everything functioning with precision. In his world, order ruled—and any violation had consequences.
So when he walked into the kitchen that morning and saw Maria with her bag open, a loaf of bread peeking out beside a few pieces of fruit, he didn’t hesitate.
“What are you doing?”
She froze.
She was only twenty-four, yet a deep, exhausted sadness lived in her eyes. Her hands began to shake. She tried to speak—to explain, maybe even beg—but the words refused to come.
Ricardo calmly set his coffee cup on the marble counter.
“Put it back.”
Maria obeyed with trembling fingers. The bread nearly slipped to the floor. The fruit rolled slightly before stopping. Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to cry.
Not in front of him.
“You can go,” Ricardo said coldly. “Today is your last day. I don’t want thieves in my house.”
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