Page 66 of Please, Forgive Me

That hope didn’t last long. Barely twenty minutes later, a message popped up on my computer: “Come to my office. Now.”

I swallowed hard and stood up.

I wasn’t ready to deal with him—but there was no avoiding it.

He was at his desk, as usual, but the hardness in his expression made it clear that patience wasn’t something he had today.

“Maria Gabriela,” he began, not even looking up from the papers in front of him. “I trust things didn’t fall apart while I was gone.”

There was something in his tone—rigid, clipped—that made me feel small. I forced my voice to stay steady, keeping my professional mask in place even as my heart started pounding like it always did when I faced him.

“Everything went as planned, Mr. Bittencourt.” I stood straight, but it felt like walking on eggshells.

He finally lifted his eyes to meet mine, and that look—intense, assessing—sent a chill through me. But it wasn’t the same as usual. There was something colder there. Calculated. Like he was studying me, searching for a crack.

“Good,” he said. “Now, about the report I asked you to finish…” He stood, moving around his desk with slow, deliberate steps until he was standing in front of me. “Is it done?”

I froze for a moment. It wasn’t.

The deadline he’d given me had been impossible, and we both knew it. He’d done it on purpose.

“Not yet,” I said firmly, trying not to let my growing anxiety show. “I’ll need more time to complete it properly.”

He stopped right in front of me, folding his arms across his chest, tilting his head slightly as if he were dissecting my every word. The silence between us thickened, heavy and oppressive.

“More time?” he repeated, tasting the words like a challenge. “I don’t recall saying that was optional. When I assign a task, I expect it to be done—no excuses.”

“I’m not making excuses, Diego,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. The boldness of using his name surprised even me, but I was tired—tired of always having to defend myself. “You know the deadline was unrealistic. If you want it done right, I need more time.”

His eyes flashed—somewhere between irritation and… was that satisfaction?

It was hard to tell. He was playing a game, and I knew it.

“Realistic?” he said, stepping closer until his presence filled the space between us. “Being realistic would mean understanding that if you don’t meet the deadline I gave you, you won’t need to come back to this office. And I’m not talking about the end of your six months. I’m talking about tomorrow.”

The air left my lungs. The threat in his voice was unmistakable.

“Diego, that’s not fair,” I said, my voice softer than I intended but still firm. “You know I’ve always done my job. This isn’t about work—this is you testing me, punishing me for—”

“Oh, please.” He laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “You really think this is punishment? I told you things would be different.”

“You can’t—” I started, but he cut me off.

“I can—and I will,” he snapped, his tone slicing through the room. “And don’t think this ends here. From now on, you don’t leave this building until your work is finished, no matter how late it gets. And trust me—I can make this a lot worse for you if I want to.”

The words hung in the air like a verdict.

The Diego I’d known before—the one who provoked and teased—was gone. This version was colder, crueler. The old games almost seemed kind in comparison.

“You wouldn’t do that to me…” I whispered, not sure I even believed my own words.

He leaned back slightly, tilting his head like he was already bored.

“I already am. And if you think I’m bluffing, I suggest you start paying closer attention.”

He shot me one last look, then turned back to his desk, signaling that our conversation was over.

I stood there for a moment, stunned, trying to process what had just happened. He was really going to treat me like this—and once again, I had no choice but to bow my head and take it.