The billionaire came to collect three months of unpaid rent on a Tuesday that felt too hot for patience.
Julián Castañeda didn’t do personal visits. He had assistants for that. Lawyers. Managers. People who spoke softly and carried clipboards.
But his property manager had called twice, voice tight.
“A kid?” Julián repeated.
“Yeah. Little girl. Always in the hallway.”
So he drove himself.
The building looked like it had given up years ago—peeling paint, a busted light over the stairwell, a smell like wet cardboard and old cooking oil.
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