Chapter 1 - The Watch On Another Woman’s Wrist
On my first day as Chief Executive Officer of Montalvo Global, my husband’s secretary looked me up and down, blocked the executive elevator with her arm, and sneered, “Interns use the service elevator.”
She had no idea who I was.
And I decided not to tell her.
Because in that exact second, I caught sight of something far more revealing than her arrogance.
On her left wrist, she was wearing a limited-edition white ceramic watch.
It was the exact same time-piece I had hand-picked for my mother-in-law’s upcoming seventieth birthday.
Only ten of those watches existed worldwide.
A month ago, while I was wrapping up a massive operational restructuring in Chicago, I had explicitly wired the private allocation fund and asked my husband, Alexander Montalvo, to finalize the boutique pickup for me.
“Please handle it before the private viewing closes,” I had told him over the phone while signing off on supplier contracts late into the night.
“Your mother is going to love the custom engraving we discussed.”
“Leave it to me, sweetheart,” he had replied smoothly, his tone as warm and polished as it had been throughout our entire ten-year marriage.
Now that very watch was strapped to the wrist of Camila Reyes, his personal executive secretary.
It would take several more minutes for me to understand the dark truth behind why she was wearing it.
That morning, I had arrived at the corporate headquarters in Manhattan wearing an understated navy shift dress, flat leather shoes, and carrying an unbranded handbag.
For six grueling years, I had led major operational turnarounds away from the glass tower of the main headquarters.
I was accustomed to roaring industrial plants, late-night red-eye flights across time zones, endless regulatory audits, and sterile budget hotels where I barely got four hours of sleep.
I had built my career in steel-toed boots and tailored wool suits that prioritized endurance over glamour.
I had never cared about dressing to advertise my personal tax bracket or broadcasting my wealth to strangers in the lobby.
Camila, apparently, operated on a very different philosophy.
Her face was sculpted with flawless contouring, her dark hair was blown out in glossy waves, and her scarlet sheath dress looked like it belonged on a runway rather than in a corporate suite.
“Didn't you hear me?” She crossed her arms, blocking the doorway with cold theatrical disdain.
“This elevator is reserved exclusively for C-suite executives and board-appointed guests.”
“I heard you perfectly,” I replied, keeping my voice utterly level.
“Then turn around and go use the other one down the hall.”
A young female junior employee standing nearby shuffled closer and whispered urgently into my ear, “You should really just do what she says.”
“You do not want to get on Ms. Reyes’s bad side on your very first day here.”
I glanced past the woman toward the dimly lit service corridor.
“Does the freight elevator go to the 68th floor?”
The girl shook her head nervously, clutching a stack of unprinted financial ledgers to her chest.
“Only to 63.”
“And what about the operational staff working on the top floors?”
She lowered her gaze, terrified that Camila might catch her speaking to me.
“We take the fire stairs the rest of the way up.”
I blinked, assuming I had misheard her words.
“Five flights of concrete stairs?”
“Yes ma'am.”
“Every single day carrying supplies and files?”
Camila let out a dry, condescending laugh that cut through the silence of the reception lobby.
“If walking up five flights of stairs is too much for entry-level staff, perhaps they don't deserve the privilege of working at this firm.”
The junior employee went completely quiet, shrinking into her cheap blazer.
That single remark ignited a cold, calculated anger inside me that went far deeper than the petty insult Camila had just aimed at my clothes.
I knew my own position and power, but this girl—and dozens of junior employees like her—had been subjected to this abusive culture for so long that they had accepted it as normal.
Three days ago, the board of directors had unanimously ratified my appointment as Chief Executive Officer of Montalvo Global.
The official company-wide press release was scheduled for 10:00 AM sharp.
Alexander knew I was returning to headquarters today, but he was missing one critical piece of information: he didn't realize the board had granted me total, unassailable operational authority over every division.
He remained Corporate Chairman due to his family name, but as of this morning, Operations, Internal Audit, Human Resources, and Legal Compliance reported directly and exclusively to me.
Camila blocked the elevator door once more with an outstretched manicure.
“This is the last time I’m telling you nicely.”
“Don't dirty up the executive car before the partners arrive.”
I looked into her eyes, reached past her arm, and firmly pressed the glowing call button.
The brushed bronze doors slid open with a whisper.
I stepped inside without breaking eye contact.
Her expression morphed instantly from smug arrogance to pure, trembling shock.
She marched in right behind me, the heels of her designer pumps clicking sharply on the imported marble floor.
“You just made the absolute worst mistake of your entire career.”
I caught our dual reflection in the polished steel walls of the private cab.
“Which career would that be?”
“Your temporary internship,” she spat, her jaw tightening.
“I’ll personally make sure HR revokes your security pass before lunch.”
I almost smiled, turning slightly toward her.
“Since when does the Chairman’s administrative secretary decide who stays and who goes in this company?”
“Anyone who works anywhere near Mr. Montalvo goes through me first.”
She didn't say it like an administrative assistant defending company policy.
She said it like an owner staking a claim on property.
When the elevator chimed softly at the executive floor, the double doors slid apart to reveal the sprawling 68th-floor executive lobby.
The surrounding staff turned their heads immediately to look at the commotion.
Camila stepped out ahead of me and immediately began recounting her version of the encounter in a loud, rehearsed voice to the floor coordinator.
Within two minutes of standing quietly beside the main lobby fountain, I overheard hushed whispers from passing managers that made my blood run ice-cold.
“Alexander trusts her more than anyone on the board.”
“She’s practically running his schedule and his private budget.”
“No one ever crosses Camila if they want to keep their bonus or their seat at the table.”
A senior logistics manager even approached me, murmuring under his breath, “Apologize to her before Mr. Montalvo finishes his morning briefing.”
“If Camila complains to him about insubordination, he can blackball you from every major firm in the tri-state area.”
I remained silent, standing upright with my hands folded loosely over my handbag.
Then, the overhead fluorescent lights caught the white ceramic casing on Camila’s wrist once more.
The watch was unmistakable.
White heat-treated ceramic.
Micro-set conflict-free diamonds lining the bezel.
A tiny silver crescent moon sitting precisely over the number six on the dial.
My stomach churned as a sickening realization began to settle in my gut.
Camila caught me staring at her wrist and raised her arm deliberately, admiring the luxury piece with unvarnished pride.
“Like it?” she purred, tapping the glass face with a red fingernail.
“Where did you get it?” I asked quietly, my voice devoid of emotion.
Her smile shifted, losing its professional edge and turning soft, smug, and intensely intimate.
“Alexander gave it to me for my work anniversary last week.”
Ten years of marriage flashed through my mind in an instant.
The late-night client dinners he swore were strictly business.
The sudden weekend trips to check on overseas assets that yielded zero actionable reports.
The mysterious withdrawals from our joint holding account that he had waved off as angel investments in private equity startups.
The watch was not a corporate gift.
It was the piece of jewelry meant for his own mother, funded by my private wire transfer, and slipped onto the wrist of a woman who thought I was an expendable intern.
I looked Camila straight in the eye and checked the time on my plain leather wristwatch.
It was 9:15 AM.
May you like
Alexander was due in the boardroom in forty-five minutes.
And Camila was about to find out that the intern she had just humiliated owned the very floor she stood on.
