Chapter 3

Despite the hangover, I hurried through the bustling crowd on the streets. It was early in the morning, but the sun felt scorching on my skin. I was sure that by the time I reached the bank, my uniform would be drenched in sweat.

I work at a bank, specifically as a teller. The bank hired me the day after that coincidental encounter with Lazarus in the same bank. I had been contemplating sending a resignation letter to the manager when I found out that Lazarus' money was one of the supports for the bank.

This is a serious matter, especially after the conversation we had in an expensive bar last night. I'm not sure what exactly I said, since I was already thoroughly intoxicated, but I do remember insisting that he wasn't Zon's father.

I don't even know how I got home. He probably didn't accompany me, right? Because if he did, Irithel might either faint or go ballistic at the thought.

The important thing is that I'm alive and my son is still with me.

I've made up my mind. I won't resign, because I badly need the money for myself and my son. How can I support my child if I don't have a job? I can't always rely on the money my parents send.

Now, Zon is at home since Laki suddenly arrived and offered to look after the child. I have a feeling that Lazarus' brother has something unusual in mind, but I still let him do as he pleases. How could I not? He always threatens me that he'll report me to his brother.

Speaking of Laki and money, he supports his nephew by giving toys, favorite foods, clothes, shoes, and everything. Why only material things? Because I refuse to accept his money.

I want to make it clear to him and his incredibly arrogant brother that I don't need their money. I raised my child properly through my own sacrifices.

Their money is trash.

I passed through the back area of the bank where we enter. It's a backdoor exclusively for the staff.

I'll receive my first paycheck today. I'll spoil my baby, buy him everything he wants, but I'll make sure to limit the spoiling.

I don't want my son to grow up as a spoiled brat like his father. What he wants should be what he gets.

I really can't forget Lazarus, no matter how many times I've tried. How can I forget him when my son looks just like him? That's why I let my son's hair grow long. If I give him a boyish haircut, he'd practically be a photocopy of his shameless father.

How did all this happen?

One night stand? No. I can't call it a one night stand when he did it three times with me.

To be honest, I don't really know him.

I shook my head to clear my mind of all the thoughts and people I'm currently thinking about. It's time for work, I need to focus.

I turned the doorknob of the backdoor in front of me. The door swung open when I pushed it, so I entered.

I was about to get myself ready for work, maybe touch up my makeup or wipe away the sweat, but I hadn't even opened my handbag when my coworker appeared in front of me.

"Calista Belmonte, right?"

I'm not exactly friendly, even though I've been working here for a month, I still haven't made any friends.

"Yes. Why?" I responded formally to my coworker, a woman. I'm not sure how she views her workplace or why she's dressed like that. Her pencil skirt is incredibly short, and her tight-fitting top leaves little to the imagination, paired with a blazer that's equally short.

Meanwhile, me? Just the average formal attire. Not too short, not too loose.

She turned away from me before answering my question. "The manager is requesting your presence at his office."

How did she know? Maybe she overheard it. She probably just came from the manager's office.

I didn't bother fixing myself up and quickly left to enter the manager's office. I've spoken to the manager before, and he's strict, not bossy or mean, just strict.

Making my way through the corridor, I could see the white-tiled floor, plain white walls, and ceiling. The manager's office was at the far end. There's a room with lockers for our personal belongings, and that's where I would have gone if the manager hadn't called me.

Nervously, I knocked on the door before hearing the manager's cold, baritone voice.

"Come in."

I felt like the manager was about to deliver some bad news. Or maybe he was going to give me my salary early?

I opened the door and entered the manager's office with courtesy. I didn't bother scanning the entire room because nothing had changed since I started working here a month ago.

A wooden bookshelf in one corner, drawers for important files and papers, a long grey sofa for visitors to wait, and finally, the manager's desk with two chairs in front.

There was a nameplate on his desk.

Erosion Santos "Have a seat, Ms. Belmonte," he offered formally.