Chapter 2
Mateo fell asleep in my arms.
Right there on the marble floor.
One second he was sobbing into my shoulder.
The next, his small body went heavy, exhausted by a grief too big for him.
No one spoke.
I could feel every eye on us.
The guards.
The maids.
Doña Socorro.
Alejandro Ríos.
I wanted someone to tell me what to do.
No one did.
So I kept holding the child.
His tears had soaked the collar of my uniform.
My ribs throbbed where the bronze statue had hit me.
My shin pulsed from his kicks.
But I did not move.
Alejandro came down the stairs slowly.
Each step seemed to make the air tighter.
When he reached us, I lowered my eyes.
That was what I had been told to do.
Do not look the boss in the eye.
Do not ask questions.
Do not make yourself noticeable.
Too late for that.
“What is your name?” he asked.
His voice was quiet.
That somehow made it more frightening.
“Valeria Gómez, señor.”
“How long have you worked here?”
I swallowed.
“Since this morning.”
A strange sound moved through the room.
Almost laughter.
Almost disbelief.
Alejandro crouched in front of me.
That made everyone tense.
Men like him did not crouch before maids.
His eyes moved to Mateo’s sleeping face.
Then to my arms around his son.
“Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
“But you understood him.”
“I understood pain.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Are you a therapist?”
“No.”
“A nurse?”
“No.”
“A mother?”
I shook my head.
“No. I am only a sister.”
He stared at me for a long moment.
Then he reached for Mateo.
The boy stirred.
His sleeping fingers tightened around my uniform.
Alejandro stopped.
That tiny movement changed his face.
For one second, the dangerous man disappeared.
Only a father remained.
A father who had forgotten what it felt like to be chosen by his own child.
“He has not held on to anyone since his mother died,” he said.
No one answered.
I whispered, “Maybe everyone kept trying to control him before they listened.”
A guard made a choking sound.
Doña Socorro closed her eyes as if praying for my soul.
I realized too late what I had said.
To Alejandro Ríos.
In his own house.
About his own son.
He looked at me with a stillness that made my stomach drop.
Then he said, “Take him upstairs.”
I blinked.
“Me?”
“He is holding you.”
So I stood carefully, wincing.
Mateo was small but solid.
Alejandro noticed the pain in my face.
“You are hurt.”
“It will pass.”
“Everything passes,” he said. “That does not mean it leaves no mark.”
He led the way himself.
No guard walked in front of him.
No one dared.
We climbed the grand staircase and entered the north wing.
The forbidden wing.
The air changed there.
The rest of the house smelled of polish, expensive flowers, and leather.
The north wing smelled faintly of medicine and closed rooms.
Mateo’s bedroom was large enough to fit my entire home.
But it did not look like a child lived there.
No toys on the floor.
No drawings.
No colorful blankets.
Only white walls, a huge bed, and shelves lined with perfect wooden animals no child had touched.
A small framed photo sat on the nightstand.
A beautiful woman holding Mateo as a baby.
She had kind eyes.
“That was Isabela,” Alejandro said.
His wife.
Mateo’s mother.
I laid Mateo on the bed.
The moment I tried to pull away, he whimpered.
His little hand grabbed my sleeve.
“Stay,” Alejandro said.
It was not a request.
So I sat beside the bed until Mateo settled again.
Alejandro stood by the window.
His reflection looked older in the glass.
“He was two when it happened,” he said. “Isabela was taking him to see her sister. A truck blocked the road. Men fired into the car.”
I listened.
I did not ask questions.
Not yet.
“Mateo saw her die,” Alejandro said. “He was found covered in her blood, screaming. After that, he stopped speaking.”
His voice did not break.
But something underneath it did.
“We buried her. Then the doctors came. Then the nannies. Then the screaming started.”
I looked around the empty room.
“Where are his toys?”
Alejandro frowned.
“He breaks them.”
“So you took them all away?”
“He uses objects as weapons.”
“He is four.”
“He hurt you.”
“Yes,” I said softly. “Because he is hurt.”
His eyes flashed.
“You think I do not know my son is hurt?”
“I think this room looks like punishment.”
The room became dangerously still.
Alejandro turned toward me.
“You speak too freely for someone who needs this job.”
My face warmed.
I thought of Luis in his hospital bed.
My mother counting pills.
Collectors pounding on our door.
“I do need this job,” I said. “But Mateo needs someone to tell the truth more than I need to keep quiet.”
Alejandro walked toward me.
I forced myself not to back away.
He stopped beside the bed.
Mateo slept between us like a tiny bridge over a canyon.
“You are either brave,” he said, “or foolish.”
“Most poor people are both, señor. We do not have the luxury of choosing only one.”
Something like surprise crossed his face.
Then a knock came.
A woman entered without waiting.
Tall.
Elegant.
Perfect hair.
Red lips.
She looked at me sitting beside Mateo and her smile died.
“Alejandro,” she said, “why is the maid in his room?”
His face hardened.
“Lucía.”
The name carried weight.
Not warmth.
She was beautiful, but not soft.
Her eyes moved over me like I was dirt on the floor.
“I heard the nanny quit. Again.” She crossed her arms. “And now you are letting servants hold him?”
Mateo stirred.
I placed a hand near him, not touching.
He quieted.
Lucía saw.
Her jaw tightened.
Alejandro saw it too.
“Valeria helped him calm down.”
Lucía laughed lightly.
“Or he exhausted himself after attacking her. We should not confuse accidents with miracles.”
I looked down.
But I felt her stare on me.
Cold.
Measuring.
Afraid.
That was the first time I sensed it.
May you like
Lucía was not angry because I had failed.
She was angry because I had succeeded.
