Chapter 5 The boss wants her out

The house smelled of wax and lavender. The marble gleamed arrogantly in the natural light that streamed in through the large windows. Amelia, still holding the damp cloth, allowed herself a second. Just a second. She rested her forehead against the frame of one of those gigantic windows in the east wing, where the sun not only warmed but also seemed to invite her to dream.

Outside, the garden was straight out of a magazine. Caretakers pruned round, sculpture-like bushes. Fountains sprayed water as if scarcity didn't exist. And children... no, not children. Little girls in expensive dresses, patent leather shoes, and perfect braids running after a French nanny.

"Isabelita would be happy in a place like this..." she thought, unable to help herself.

And it was just then.

A sound of heels, dry and hard, interrupted her reverie. She didn't have to turn around. She already knew.

"What are you doing here?" The voice was icy. As stiff as the hairstyle of the woman who looked at her with revulsion: Martina de la Vega, matriarch of the clan, absolute lady of the mansion, mother of Luciano.

Amelia lowered her head immediately.

"Excuse me, ma'am, I just..."

"What are you?" Martina interrupted, taking another step closer. Her strong, expensive perfume enveloped her like a suffocating cloud. "This wing doesn't belong to you. No window belongs to you. You clean, you don't observe."

Amelia swallowed. She felt her heart thump in her throat.

"Please, I didn't mean any disrespect. I just... needed air."

Martina tilted her head, that expression of contempt seemingly tattooed on her face.

"I don't care what you need. Or do you think you're here to live like one of us?"

"No, ma'am..." Her voice trembled.

"What is your name?" "Amelia." "Not for long." The sentence fell like a closing door. Martina spun on her heels and snapped her fingers. From the end of the hall, Leopoldo, the butler, appeared. "Fire her. Today. Tell her to gather her things and leave before lunch."

Her heart sank. Amelia felt her knees weaken.

"No, please!" She knelt without thinking. She clutched the hem of the butler's uniform like a lifeline. "Señora Martina, I beg you! My little sister is sick, I need this job!"

"How vulgar!" Mrs. de la Vega stepped back as if Amelia had contaminated her with her touch.

"I implore you..." she continued, her tears falling heavily, salty. Without dignity, but with all the love in the world for Isabelita. "I have nowhere else to go!" Please!

"This is unacceptable," Martina said. But her voice faltered for a fraction of a second. A grimace of discomfort crossed her face, as if annoyed that the plea brought her not pleasure but discomfort.

Leopoldo looked at the lady and then at Amelia. There was a hint of pity on his weathered face.

"Madam..." he said in a deep, gentle voice. "Amelia is a good worker. Punctual. Discreet. She hasn't caused any trouble before. Perhaps a... a warning would be enough."

Martina pursed her lips. The silence thickened.

Amelia, still on the floor, was barely breathing.

"One more," the lady finally said, without looking at her. "One more mistake, and not even the Pope can save you. Understand?"

Amelia nodded, sobbing.

Martina left, but not before giving her one last look filled with disdain.

When the sound of heels faded, the butler crouched down to her level.

"Stand up, child. Don't ever kneel before her again."

"Thank you, Señor Leopoldo. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. It pains me to see someone so young beg like that. But be careful. This house is unforgiving."

Amelia nodded. She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her dignity was gone, but the job, for now, was secure.

As she stood up, she felt something break inside. A little more of her pride. A little more of her faith.

But when she thought of Isabelita, feverish, hugging the eyeless bear, it was all worth it.

A servant looking out a window might seem like a small act.

But in a house like that, it was almost a declaration of war.

And Amelia had already learned that poverty, in addition to hunger, also brings punishments for looking too high.

Amelia crossed the corridor with small steps. As soon as she turned the corner, her tears burst from her eyes as if a faucet had been turned on. She covered her face with her hands, leaning against the wall, and fell to her knees.

She wanted to scream, to disappear. It was so humiliating to beg. But it was either that... or hunger. It was either that... or Isabelita with a fever in a house falling apart.

What she didn't know was that across the hall, behind a half-open curtain, Luciano De la Vega had seen everything.

He had been there before, watching by chance. But when he heard his mother, he fell silent. And when he saw Amelia begging, her voice breaking, he felt something strange in his chest. Pity? Curiosity? Rage?

He didn't know. He only saw the mop she was still holding, her dirty hands, her face shiny with tears.

And for a second-just a second-his arrogance trembled. Because that girl didn't give up out of pride or defiance. She begged for someone else.

And that... that seemed terribly uncomfortable to him.

From the shadows, Luciano watched her cry. Without saying anything. Without intervening. But unable to stop watching.