"Mr. Castro?" Leticia straightened her shirt and met his waking gaze. He blinked, slow, like someone surfacing. "Who—" Ezekiel's voice was gravel and distance. She smiled and let it stretch. "Good morning. You look terrible. Consider that charity." He pushed up on one elbow, eyes narrowing. "Leticia?" "That's me." She walked to the minibar, opened it, untouched. "You left a mess in the suite. Clothes, empty glasses, one broken cufflink." Ezekiel swung his legs off the bed and studied her as if cataloging damage. "I don't remember any of that." She set her phone on the coffee table, screen facing him. A timestamp. A photo: his hand, his ring, a smear of lipstick on his collar. "You don't remember," she repeated, soft and deliberate. "No memory," he said. "I—" "You think I'm stupid?" Her voice dropped. Hands on hips. "I have a recording from the night that contradicts amnesia." He flinched. He did not like to flinch. He straightened like a soldier correcting posture. "You could call the police." She laughed. Short. Sharp. "We both know what that would do to you, Mr. Castro. A headline, an investigation, a restraining order. Castro Holdings doesn't need another scandal this quarter." He sat very still. "You are outrageous." "Outrageous and practical." She tapped the phone once. "One million dollars. Transfer now, to an account I control. No lawyer. No press. You sign, I erase. You refuse, I post the recording, and I give copies to a