“I SPEAK 9 LANGUAGES” – THE GIRL SAID PROUDLY… THE MILLIONAIRE LAUGHED, BUT THEN FROZE IN SHOCK

Ricardo Salazar burst into laughter when the 12-year-old girl said,
—“I speak nine languages fluently.”

Lucía, the daughter of the cleaning lady, looked straight at him with quiet determination.

What came out of her lips next would freeze the laughter on his face forever.

Ricardo adjusted his $80,000 Patek Philippe watch as he surveyed with absolute disdain the boardroom on the 52nd floor of his corporate tower in the heart of Bogotá.

At 51, he had built a tech empire that made him the richest man in Colombia, with a personal fortune of $1.2 billion. But he was also the most ruthless and arrogant.

His office was an obscene monument to his ego: black Carrara marble walls, art pieces worth more than entire mansions, and a 360-degree panoramic view that reminded him every single day that he was—literally—above the “ants” crawling through the streets below.

But what Ricardo enjoyed most wasn’t his obscene wealth.
It was the sadistic power it gave him—the ability to humiliate and crush anyone he deemed inferior.

“Mr. Salazar…” his secretary’s trembling voice interrupted his thoughts of superiority through the golden intercom. “Mrs. Carmen and her daughter are here for the cleaning.”

“Send them in,” Ricardo replied, a cruel smile slowly spreading across his bronzed face. “Today, I’ll have a little fun.”

For the past week, Ricardo had been meticulously planning his favorite game: public humiliation.

He had recently inherited an old manuscript, written in multiple languages, that the best translators in the city had declared impossible to fully decipher.

It was a strange text, mixing characters from Mandarin, Arabic, Sanskrit, and other languages even university experts couldn’t identify.

Ricardo had turned this into his most sadistic entertainment.

At that moment, the glass door slid open.

Carmen Martínez, 45, walked in with her neat navy-blue uniform, pushing the cleaning cart that had been her loyal companion for eight years.

Behind her, with hesitant steps and a worn but spotless school backpack, followed her daughter—Lucía.

Lucía Martínez was 12, the perfect opposite of the obscene luxury surrounding her. Her polished black shoes had seen better days, her patched-up public school uniform was still immaculate, and books borrowed from the municipal library peeked out of her backpack.

Her wide, curious eyes contrasted sharply with the submissive, fearful gaze her mother had learned after years of being treated as invisible.