Chapter 4 - The Unraveling of Lies
The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind Doña Mercedes and Patricia Velasco, leaving only an oppressive, suffocating silence in the executive office. Patricia had screamed curses all the way down the corridor, her wedding plans flashing before her eyes like a burning ship, while Doña Mercedes had cast one long, lingering, deeply troubled look back at Valeria before letting the heavy oak seal them off.
Only Rodrigo and Valeria remained.
And little Matías, who had finally drifted off into an exhausted, tear-stained slumber, his small head resting heavily against Valeria’s hip as she stood frozen in the center of the room.
Rodrigo did not speak immediately. He walked slowly back to his executive desk, poured two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal tumbler, but did not drink it. Instead, he leaned back against the edge of the mahogany wood, his dark eyes boring into Valeria with the relentless focus of a man accustomed to dismantling corporate competitors during hostile takeovers.
“You’re shaking,” Rodrigo noted softly, his voice dangerously smooth.
“Mr. Santillán, please,” Valeria managed to say, her voice straining under the immense pressure. “If I have overstepped my bounds, if my presence here causes distress to Miss Velasco or your family, I will resign immediately. I’ll pack my bag and leave tonight. You won't ever have to see me again.”
“Resign?” Rodrigo gave a dry, humorless chuckle, swirling the liquor in his glass. “Rosa... or whatever your real name is. You think this is about employment policies? You think a domestic worker triggers a full-blown family crisis by making my mute son speak his first word in eighteen months, and I simply wave goodbye and let her walk out my front gates?”
He pushed off the desk and began to walk toward her, his stride measured and deliberate.
Valeria’s heart hammered against her ribs like a caged animal. She backed up a step, but her heel hit the edge of the Persian rug, stopping her movement.
“You’re hiding something,” Rodrigo said, stopping just two feet away from her. He was tall enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze. Up close, she could see the faint stubble along his jawline and the tiny lines of exhaustion fanning out from the corners of his eyes—lines forged by grief and sleepless nights. “People who run from their past don't seek work in the heart of Polanco. They don't carry themselves with posture that belongs in a European boarding school. And they certainly don't look at me with defiance when I corner them.”
“I am a maid,” Valeria insisted, though her voice lacked conviction. “I grew up in poverty in the state of Hidalgo. I worked in kitchens—”
“A woman from the rural hills of Hidalgo does not instinctively know how to perform the Heimlich maneuver, nor does she quote classical Spanish poetry to soothe a crying child, as I overheard you doing through the nursery monitor last Tuesday,” Rodrigo interrupted smoothly.
Valeria gasped softly, her defenses crumbling piece by piece.
“Who are you?” Rodrigo demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, resonant whisper. He reached out, his warm fingers unexpectedly brushing against a stray lock of hair that had escaped her tight ponytail, tucking it gently behind her ear. The simple, intimate gesture sent a violent shiver down her spine. “Why did my son call you mother? Did you know my late wife, Elena? Are you some ghost from our past come back to haunt us?”
“No! I never knew Elena!” Valeria cried out, the denial slipping past her lips before she could catch it, her eyes welling with sudden, hot tears of frustration and terror. “I didn't know anyone in this house! I came here to disappear! I came here because I had nowhere else to run!”
“Run from what?” Rodrigo pressed, his hand gripping her shoulder now, not with violence, but with an unyielding, desperate need for answers. “From a bad employer? From a bad marriage? In Mexico City, people with your level of education don't vanish into service work unless the wolves are right behind them.”
Before Valeria could pull away or construct another lie, a sudden, frantic pounding erupted on the heavy oak door.
The sound broke the spell between them.
“Rodrigo! Open this door right now!” Patricia’s shrill voice pierced through the mahogany panels. “Your mother and I have just checked the staff registry! There is no record of a Rosa Valeria Jiménez paying taxes or holding a valid CURP card in the national database! She’s an impostor! She’s an intruder!”
Rodrigo’s eyes flashed with sudden, cold realization. He looked down at Valeria, who had gone completely white.
“They’re calling the police,” Rodrigo muttered, the corporate predator reawakening instantly. He didn't hesitate. He reached down, carefully scooping sleeping Matías out of Valeria’s arms and cradling the boy against his broad chest. Then, with his free hand, he grabbed Valeria firmly by the wrist.
“Come with me,” he ordered.
“Mr. Santillán, no—!”
“Quiet. If the police run your fingerprints through the federal database and find out who you really are, whatever you’re running from will catch up to you in five minutes flat. Do you want to go back to the wolves, or do you want to trust me?”
May you like
Valeria stared into his dark, searching eyes. For three years, she had trusted no one. She had lived in constant, paralyzing paranoia. But looking at the fierce determination in Rodrigo Santillán’s face—and seeing him holding his son with the same protective instinct she possessed—something inside her snapped.
She nodded.
