Two days later
Gutiérrez and Co.
The tension that hung in the air was thick and unbearable.
Steely glass corridors rang with the incessant chatter of phones. The sound of the heeled footsteps clattered quicker than usual. Voices rose—frustrated, frantic, fractured. Screens glowed with tumbling stock graphs, numbers pulsing red as if warnings like sirens blared of an imminent collapse.
Maximiliano paced inside the executive control room like a man on the brick of disaster.
His usually slicked back hair was now uncharacteristically tousled, sleeves were rolled and his tie hung loosely around his neck.
His eyes fixed on the digital display on the far wall, as sweat beaded along his temple—the stock graph of Gutiérrez and co. was plummeting like an airplane with a loss of altitude.
"Down 12.8% since market opened—"
"We have lost faith in Tokyo and Berlin simply far too long ago—"
Connect the dots→ "Shareholders demand a vote of assurance—"
On line two: "Legal team holding—"
The voices swam around him, quick and overlapping, like the hum of wasps inside his head.
"Shut it off!" Maximilano snapped as he turned angrily to the closest monitor. "All of it, shut it down. I don't wanna hear another godforsaken percentage drop—just fix it!"
The assistant hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the keys.
"Sir, we have a shareholder meeting in an hour. We need a strategy."
Maximiliano ran his hand through his hair stepping back. His mind raced in circles. This wasn't supposed to happen. Yes, the news had broken.
Suzzanne Gutiérrez was being dragged down through the headlines from Madrid to Manhattan.
But this?
This was not the kind of fallout he had anticipated.
He glanced at his watch. 9:05 AM. The boardroom filled by ten. Executives were arriving already. The pressure was building like water behind a glass wall— one more crack, and the whole company might burst.
And yet… even with the storm, there was something that worried him more than falling numbers.
Suzzanne.
She was in her office as if none of it did exist.
No panic. No statements. No denial. No calls.
Just silence.
Calm.
Almost… too calm.
He'd seen her this morning. He was walking by the top floor corridor when he saw a glimpse through the frosted glass of her office. She was by the window, arms folded, gazing out as if watching rain fall. As if she hadn't been the epicenter of a corporate earthquake.
Like she had expected this.
Maximiliano's chest tightened.
"Does she even care?"
"Does she know we're sinking?"
"Or worse… is she letting it happen?"
The questions echoed in his mind like static.
He turned back to the assistant.
"Get everyone in the boardroom. Now," he said in a voice that was lower but unyielding.
"And send someone to call Ms. Gutiérrez. I want her there before the meeting begins."
He paused.
Then added coolly "if she even care about herself or the company "
Gutiérrez Corporation – Boardroom, 10:00 AM
The boardroom echoed with tension.
A long mahogany table stretched across the room, its stithed leather chairs now occupied with nervous executives and shareholders.
Those glass walls allow more than enough light to spill in, making every nervous frown, each clenched jaw was full visible.
In the background, some assistants were setting glasses of water down with faint sounds while documents were being shuffled for no other reason than habit.
The air was thick with whisperings—soft, brittle, taut.
Until the double doors opened.
Suzzanne Gutiérrez walked in.
She didn't just enter. She arrived. There was something about her, an aura of calm, poise, steeliness. The room fell quiet as though gravity had shifted to behold her.
She wore a grey plaid blazer perfectly crisp and tailored over a matching button-up shirt. The monochrome colour scheme amplified the dominance she carried. The strong shoulders in the blazer, made her look every inch the empire's heiress she was.
Every step she took, was measured, careful and unapologetic as her heels echoed as she walked toward the head of the table.
Even Felix, her silent shadow huddled just behind her holding the clipboard, seemed a bit rattled.
Eyes tracked her. Mouths closed mid-whisper.
Every gaze landed upon her as though she was a flame no one wanted to admit they were scared of. Suzzanne, though—she was unfazed by the ruckus.
Her face wore the same serenity as someone walking into the casual lunch—not a crisis board meeting with the billions at stake.
She settled into a seat at the head of the table. Crossed one leg over the other with elegance, hands resting down on the each armrests.
"Ms. Gutiérrez — It keeps getting worse. We cannot just be idle and allow to this ship go sink!" An older shareholder, broke out, red-faced and silver hair. His voice sliced through the tension like a whip.
Suzzanne's gaze drifted to him. Calm.
Steady. Unrushed.
Others began to speak.
One after another, the voices rose.
"There's a talk of mass sell-off. Investors are losing faith."
"One of the key funders is threatening to back out."
"Public image is in shambles. The media storm won't die."
"We cannot afford this silence, Ms. Gutiérrez".
Still, Suzzanne said nothing.
She leaned back elegantly composed and regal, flicking her eyes to one speaker to another — listening every bit of it, but unmoved.
Felix cast a look over at her. Even he could not decipher what she was thinking.
Then came another disturbing voice—
"Ms. Gutiérrez…I don't think you've anything to say in your defence. That silence—yeah, I am beginning to think the media might be right. Perhaps the rumors are true."
Suzzanne slowly cut her eyes to him.
The shareholder shifted uncomfortably in his chair under her gaze, feeling his bravado start to wane.
"You think so?" she asked, her voice low but chillingly composed, as if she hadn't heard an insult but an invitation.
The man cleared his throat. "Well... It shows in what's done. That makes you the only suspect... I mean, there is some truth in that, right?"
Silence.
Then Suzzanne leaned forward, tapping her finger on the armrest once.
"Alright. Let's do this." Her tone was casual—too casual.
"I'll buy back your shares. You're free to leave this room."
Gasps.
Murmurs.
The same shareholder's eyes widened.
"What?"
Suzzanne didn't blink. "We have the clause—Right of First Refusal. If you know what that means, see yourself out. And if you don't wanna sell... I can force it. You know that too."
Before the stunned man could say anything, two security guards had moved in on either side of the room.
"What is this—? You can't just—!"
They didn't touch him. They didn't need to. The implication was enough. He gathered his stuff with a storm of whispered fury and shame, stumbling towards the exit through every pair of eyes.
Stillness returned.
Another shareholder coughed nervously. "Ms. Gutiérrez—"
But he didn't get to finish.
"One Week" Suzzanne said as she stood slowly "One week, and our share price will rise five times what it is today."
Confused glances were exchanged through the table.
"Decide by then," she added. "What you want to do. Stay, or sell. Just be certain of what comes next."
Her confidence was unnerving. Not hope. Not a gamble. Certainty.
Finally, she looked around the room one last time before turning to leave with Felix following wordlessly behind her.
Confusion in the Boardroom filled– shareholders, executives, legal advisors – froze – no one moved.
But they did not understand what she meant. They had no idea what she was up to.
But one thing everybody in that room knew:
If Suzzanne Gutiérrez gave her word... she never failed.
Enrique's Side – Stadium Locker Room, Evening
The rich air in the locker room was a cocktail of blood, sweat, grass and disinfectant mixed with leftover adrenaline like deserved war trophies.
Showers hissed in the background, lockers slammed together, teammates laughed and talked as they unwound following yet another rigorous training session.
Enrique sat on the bench before his locker, towel draped over his neck, hair damp, still pulsating from the workout. Dressed to go — black athletic hoodie, joggers, shoes laced. Now all he had to do was reach for his phone.
He reached into his locker and took it out and the display lit up with messages.
17 messages. 6 missed calls. 9 news alerts.
Typical.
He flipped through them absently until one caught his eye — and froze him in place.
"Suzzanne Gutiérrez — The Gutiérrez Heiress Now a Suspect in Charity Event Murder"
His thumb hovered. His breath hitched.
A faint roar filled his ears.
He tapped the notification, and the full article opened. The headline screamed again at the top of the screen, and beneath it was a photo of her—Suzzanne—looking flawless and aloof at some past event, caught mid-glance, the same unreadable expression she always wore.
Enrique frowns as he begins to read.
"Suzzanne Gutiérrez, heiress to the family run Gutiérrez and co. has been named a suspect in the night's homicide during The Society's biggest charitable event of the year co-hosted by The Foundation..."
The article looped—a speculation, a witness account, commentary on her stoicism, her lack of response, her silence. It was all dressed in subtle venom.
He blinked in disbelief.
What the hell was that?
He'd just seen her days ago, untouched by panic, even smiling in that enigmatic way of hers. He remembered how calculated her gaze always felt—as if she were looking through him.
Just as he was about to lock his phone, another ping.
Another headline. Same news outlet.
Suzzanne Gutiérrez bloody history: 'This wasn't the first time'
A chill crawled up his spine.
He clicked it.
The article was incomparably worse than the previous one.
"In an exclusive new look into the heiress's past, sources claim Suzzanne Gutiérrez was involved in the mysterious death of her own father at the age of fourteen..."
Enrique gripped his smartphone more firmly as he leaned forward on the bench.
"Although no charges were ever officially made in the case, insiders have noted that the family was connected to influential lawyers at the time. A house staff member claims she 'never was the same after that night. It triggered the killer instinct in her back then."
He stopped reading.
It was too much. Too fast.
Enrique looked at the screen as if it would right itself. As if her name was not its headliner. This was some kind of cruel joke.
But it wasn't.
He felt heavy.
It wasn't from the practice, but from the weight of what he'd read: Sweat started to bead at his temple.
A fleeting thought of her face crossed his mind. The way she watched people. The way she never flinched.
Now, her everything seemed different. Distant. As if he had been in a room with a lit fuse and couldn't even feel it.
Was it true?
All of it? Or none of it?
And even worse—why was he not feeling shocked?
A hint at the whisper of his brain.
A whisper from instinct.
There was some intensity about her, some way that she held herself and never had to raise her voice to seem threatening.
Enrique turned to the phone one last time.
"She's always been one step ahead."
He couldn't tell anymore if it was fear crawling up his spine—or something else entirely.