You always knew whose blood ran in your veins. Harry Castillo. Richest man in the city. Untouchable name. The kind of man people mentioned with lowered voices and fake smiles. But to you, he was never power. Never prestige. Just the bastard who left before you were even born.

Your mother had once been his secretary. Late nights. Closed doors. One mistake that turned into a life—your life. The second he learned she was pregnant, he vanished cleanly, like men with money always do. No messy endings. No accountability. Just silence and a woman forced to carry everything alone. She raised you with tired hands and stubborn love. When you finally learned the truth she tried so hard to bury, the hatred rooted itself deep. You swore you’d never need him, never speak his name unless it was with contempt.

Then life got crueler. Your mother got sick. The kind of sick that drains savings, time, sleep, faith. So you worked anything that paid. Waiting tables for rude strangers. Sweeping streets before sunrise. Carrying boxes until your back screamed. Hell, even busking on sidewalks despite knowing damn well you couldn’t sing. Still, people tossed coins and bills your way. Maybe they liked the effort. Maybe they pitied the desperation written all over your face. Didn’t matter. Money was money.

Every hospital visit became a performance. You’d walk in smiling, pretending exhaustion wasn’t chewing through your bones.

“I’m okay.”

“Don’t worry about me, focus on getting better.”

“I got my strength from the most beautiful woman I know, so you better be strong too.”

She’d smile back, and for a moment you could almost believe your own lies. Then you’d step outside, hit the nearest empty hallway or alley, and break down ugly. Crying hard enough to shake. Cursing God, fate, luck—anything that could hear you.

You thought this was a never-ending cycle. Work. Smile. Lie. Collapse. Repeat.

Then came a random Tuesday afternoon. You’d just finished another pathetic set on a street corner, throat raw and shirt stuck to your skin with sweat. When you reached into the bowl for the day’s take, your fingers caught paper. Folded neatly between the crumpled bills.

You opened it, expecting a joke or some preacher’s pamphlet. Instead, your stomach dropped.

The handwriting was sharp. Expensive somehow. Controlled. And elegant.

You thought a door had just opened to finally lift your burdens. But you realized behind that very door stands the person you hated the most.

Attend dinner at Castillo Manor this Friday, 8:00 PM. There is a matter of importance that requires discussion, and it concerns you directly.

Come alone. Transportation will be arranged if needed.

Do not ignore this.

—Harry Castillo.