It’s Just an Engagement Party (What Could Possibly Go Wrong?)

The second-floor workspace looks like a bored P*******t board: neat white desk, bookshelves, two monitors. I’m in a fitted black blazer on top… alpaca-print pajama pants on the bottom.

Out in the hallway, just beyond the half-closed door, the sound of running shakes the corridor.

“SUPER MAX WILL SAVE THE WORLD!”

“NO! SUPER BELLA SAVES THE WORLD! MAX IS THE VILLAIN!”

I rub my temples. “Max, Issa, if you crash into a wall and give yourselves a concussion. I have a meeting, por favor.”

My laptop chimes softly in front of me, a new email notification. Tania’s icon pops up in the corner of our internal chat.

TANIA:

Boss, we’ve got something big.

New potential client from Washington.

Name: Northlake Horizons Realty.

My eyebrows lift. I scroll through the email she forwarded. Formal logo, tidy signature, DC address. The body: a request for consulting on migrating their entire IT system from on-prem to the cloud, plus a full security overhaul.

The f*e they’re offering for the “initial engagement”?

“Okay,” I murmur. “Hello, future child therapy and bathroom renovation.”

The email is packed: NDA attached, legalese so long it reads like it was written by someone who thinks punctuation is optional. Everything goes through a law firm and a financial advisor, not a single “owner” name in sight.

…recently acquired by a new investment group…

…all communications will be through our legal and financial representatives…

…the new principal prefers to remain off-document until the European process is finalized…

I scroll through the digital NDA. Pages one through four basically say: “If you talk carelessly, we cut your access and possibly an organ.”

More or less.

“So thick,” I complain under my breath, opening the legal-translation tab in my head. “For people who just want to move servers, they’re paranoid.”

Another notification pops up.

TANIA: I already checked, Boss. Northlake is an old real estate company, old family. Just got acquired by some investment group with no clear name. The f*e is insane. This could be our biggest project.

I exhale slowly. All right, Northlake. If you’re paying this much, I can pretend I’m not terrified of an NDA the length of a thesis.

I tick the “I agree” box and sign digitally.

Arabella D. Gómez. CEO.

An hour later, I sit straight in front of the laptop camera, angle adjusted so the alpacas under the desk stay out of frame. Background: bookshelves, a green plant, and a window with Oregon fog in the distance. 

Zoom chimes. “Northlake Meeting – 10:00 AM.”

I click Join.

Three faces appear. One is Tania, neat with a headset. The other two are new.

The first: a woman in her forties, blonde hair pulled into a tight bun, thin glasses, gray blazer. Expression cold, like she was born in a boardroom. Her name appears: Claire O’Connell – Legal Counsel.

The second: a man in his early thirties, slick smile, perfectly knotted tie, brown hair brushed back. CFO, according to the email. The name under his video: Ethan Vale – CFO.

“Ms. Gómez,” Claire starts, voice flat but polite. “Thank you for taking the time.”

“Please, call me Arabella,” I reply, giving a smile.

“We’ve heard great things about your firm from a few contacts in Seattle. It’s nice to finally meet you, Arabella,” Ethan adds.

“Sure.” I lean back just enough. “You sent over the NDA. Very… comprehensive.”

Claire gives a single nod. “As you saw in the document, Northlake Horizons was recently acquired by our investment group. Given the complexity of the new structure and several ongoing legal processes in Europe, we require a certain level of confidentiality.”

“I understand,” I say evenly. I click on my screen, pulling up the signed confirmation. “I’ve signed. So you can start telling me all the interesting things that were censored before.”

Ethan smiles, folding his arms. “We want a full migration: internal systems, client data, property archives, plus integration with a new platform we’re developing. We also need a complete security audit. We don’t want any… surprises.”

“Good.” I nod. “I hate surprises too. Unless they come in the form of a large check.”

We start going over the timeline: three months for assessment and design, three to six months for phased implementation. I give a quick outline of my team structure, our methods, how I refuse to touch anyone’s system if they’re still using “123456” as a password.

“And about the integration into the new infrastructure,” I continue, sharing my slides. “We need to know what platform you’re building. You mention ‘new infrastructure’ in the documents, but there are no details.”

“For now,” Claire replies, “we’ll refer to it simply as the ‘central infrastructure.’ Everything will be handled by another third party who has also signed a similar agreement. You’ll coordinate with them in phase two.”

“And about the owner?” I ask lightly. “The documents mention a ‘new principal,’ but there isn’t a single name.”

Ethan leans back in his chair. “Our owner…” he pauses, choosing his words, “prefers to keep his name and face in the background until all the legal processes in Europe are finalized. For now, consider yourself working directly with us. Technical and financial decisions will go through Claire and me.”

“The principal’s name won’t appear in any document until everything is clean. That’s also one of the reasons our NDA is that thick,” Claire adds.

“So,” I'm lifting one brow. “Your new owner is mysterious, Europe is complicated, the NDA is long, but the money’s good. Sounds like a fun challenge.”

Claire doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften just a fraction. “We appreciate your honesty.”

“I appreciate invoices that get paid on time,” I reply. “Let’s call it a mutually beneficial relationship.”

We wrap up the meeting with a task list: they’ll send limited access to the old system, I’ll send a detailed team breakdown and proposal. Tania is already drafting the follow-up email in the background.

Before we leave the call, Ethan adds, “Oh, one more thing. Our principal might join one of the upcoming meetings, once some of the European paperwork is… more stable. He usually isn’t hands-on, but this project is important to him.”

I only lift a brow. “As long as he doesn’t ask me to use a cheap platform and a password like ‘password,’ I can work with anyone.”

They laugh. Goodbyes. Cameras blink off one by one.

::::

The dining room smells like roasted chicken, warm white rice, and a faint hint of wet socks. Classic combo in this house.

Max and Issa sit in their chairs, superhero shirts still on, hair a mess, cheeks flushed. No baths. Theo hasn’t showered either, but at least he has the decency to wear a clean hoodie.

Getting the kids bathed this afternoon is officially a failed mission. Theo had one job, one, and he chose to play chase with pillows instead.

“I’m hungry,” Max announces. “I want the biggest piece of chicken. Because I’m the strongest.”

Issa snorts. “No. I’m queen. Queen eats first.”

“You’re queen of drama,” Max replies calmly, reaching for the biggest piece of chicken. “Drama doesn’t need protein.”

“TÍO!” Issa complains at a volume that makes the chandelier shiver. “Max steal my chicken!”

Theo scoots his chair a little. “If you fight again, I’ll eat all the chicken.”

Max and Issa both glare at him, then scramble to compromise. 

I sit down, take a breath, and scoop rice onto my plate. “You know showering is not optional. It’s mandatory. Some people in this room…” I shoot Theo a sharp look, “…smell like sweat and crime.”

Theo stares at me, theatrically offended. “I’m the heir. I smell like money.”

“You smell like exhaustion and caffeine,” I correct him.

Issa leans toward Theo and sniffs his hoodie with deep concentration. “Tío smell like coffee and… dog.”

Max nods, all-knowing. “Like the dog near the mailbox.”

My phone lies on the table, screen facing up. Just as I take my first bite of rice, it buzzes.

The name flashing on my screen: Fiona

I grab the phone immediately. “Okay, gremlins, who wants to see Aunt Fio?”

“TIAAA!” Issa climbs onto her chair so fast she almost knocks over her water glass.

“She's annoying,” Max mutters, but he scoots closer too, pressing his head against my cheek so he can fit into the frame.

I hit the video call button. The screen flips to my little sister’s face: black wavy hair piled into a lazy bun, red lipstick, oversized T-shirt. Behind her I catch a glimpse of the living room back home in Medellín: gray sofa, big plant, and something moving in the corner of the frame… oh, Mamá.

“¡Mis amores!” Fiona’s voice jumps an octave the moment she sees Max and Issa. “MIRA, GEMELITOS!”

Issa practically kisses the screen. “I miss you! When you come here? We have rain and forest and Tío.”

“Your priorities are fascinating,” I mutter.

“Tiaa, I lose my tooth.” Max opens his mouth wide, pointing at the tiny gap.

Fiona squeals. “Ay, Dios, if Abuelo sees this, he’s going to cry.”

Before I can jump in, another voice crashes the call.

“¿Qué hacen, eh? Why are you all fighting over the screen?”

Mamá appears at the edge of Fiona’s frame and immediately snatches the phone. Her face fills the screen, eyeliner on point, hair pulled back neat. “Mi vidaaaas,” she coos. “Max, Issa, come on, show Abuela, have you eaten yet?”

“Eating,” Max answers through a mouthful, visual evidence included.

Issa lifts her chicken to the camera. “Look, Abuela, Mama cook chicken. Not burnt.”

“HEY,” I protest.

Mamá ignores me completely. “Ara, why are the kids still in pajamas at this hour? They don’t sell clocks in Oregon?”

“These are not pajamas,” I shoot back. “This is… loungewear. And it’s lunchtime, not morning.”

“Loungewear, my foot,” Papá grumbles in the background, his voice deep and warm. He appears in frame too, sliding an arm around Mamá’s shoulders. “I send my grandkids to United States, and they forget how to dress properly for the dinner table when they come back.”

Theo leans back in his chair, smiling. “Hi, Papá. Good to see your attitude is still consistent.”

“Theo,” Papá nods. “Are you over there taking care of your sister, or helping her destroy the house?”

“Depends on the day,” Theo answers honestly.

Our dining room turns into a loud international conference: Mamá fires questions at Max and Issa (what they’re eating, what time they sleep, if they can read yet, why Issa’s hair looks like it fought a blender and lost), Papá slips in a comment every three seconds, Theo responds with light sarcasm, Issa answers everything dramatically, Max with short bullet-point facts.

I just sit there, chewing, making sure no one spills juice on my laptop.

“Ara,” Mamá turns back to me, pupils narrowing. “You look thinner. What are you eating over there? Don’t tell me it’s just salad and coffee.”

I sigh. "I am literally eating chicken in front of you.”

“Yes, but you’re eating while working, that’s different,” she cuts in. “I can tell from the way you’re holding your spoon. That’s the spoon of a workaholic woman, not a relaxed person.”

Papá laughs. “Workaholic spoon?”

“Shut up, Ricardo.”

“Ma,” I say, trying to redirect. “Where is Fiona? I was trying to talk to her, not get interrogated by the food police.”

As if she just remembered, Mamá pulls the phone back. Fiona slips into the frame again, this time sitting between them on the sofa. Her face looks… off. Brighter than usual.

“Why are you grinning like that?” I narrow my eyes. “Are you pregnant? If you’re pregnant before getting married, I swear—”

“Wow,” Theo cuts in. “The hypocrisy levels here are just—”

“Shut up, Theo,” Mamá and I say in unison.

Fiona laughs. “Relájate, Bella. I’m not pregnant.”

“Then why does your face look like you just won Miss Universe?” I lean closer to the screen. “Talk. Before I lose my patience.”

Fiona bites her lip, then lifts her left hand toward the camera.

There’s a ring.

Classic round diamond, sitting on a white gold band, catching light from every angle.

For the first few seconds, my brain refuses to compute.

“Shiny,” Max breathes, impressed.

“OOOOH, PRINCESS RING!” Issa shrieks.

Theo almost chokes on his drink. “Excuse me?”

That’s when I realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it slowly. “Fio,” I say, voice flat, “is that…?”

Fiona’s grin stretches wider. “I’m engaged.”

Silence for one second.

Two.

Then the house, split across two continents and two time zones, explodes.

“WHAT?!” I scream at the same time as Theo.

“Fiona Danielle Gómez, since when are you engaged and why am I only finding out now?” I grind out, furious.

Fiona lifts her chin. “Two weeks ago.”

“Two weeks?!” Theo almost drops his own phone. “Two. Weeks. You have two older siblings and you… sat on this information?”

“For the surprise,” Fiona says, completely unapologetic. “See? You’re surprised.”

“Surprised?” I almost laugh. “I’m borderline having a heart attack.”

Max raises his small hand. “What is engaged?”

“It means Aunt Fio is getting married,” Theo answers, still staring at the ring. “Which means there will be a party. And food. A lot of food.”

Issa is practically standing on her chair. “CAN I BE FLOWER GIRL?!”

“If you don’t throw the flowers at people’s faces,” I cut in.

“Of course you can, princesa,” Fiona answers quickly. “You and Max have to come. You’re required to be here.”

I narrow my eyes. “That ‘here’ is where exactly? Home? Medellín?”

“This Saturday, hija. The engagement party is this Saturday. We were going to tell you, but you’re always busy with… what do you call it, the servers?” Papá answers before she can.

“Saturday?” I repeat. I glance at the calendar on the corner of the table, my brain automatically counting. “that’s… this week.”

“Exactly.” Fiona nods, her smile not fading even a little. “So you, Theo, and the little gemelos buy tickets, pack your suitcases, and your asses need to be in this house by Friday night at the latest. I don’t accept excuses.”

Theo leans back in his chair with a sigh. “You know we have lives, right?”

“I do.” Fiona grins. “That’s why I gave you a week. That’s generous.”

I drag a hand down my face, juggling five problems in three seconds: two four-year-olds on a long-haul flight, work, a new client from Washington, and the fact that every time I go home, the memories from five years ago sit in the airplane seat right next to me.

“Maa,” I sigh, trying to be rational. “I have a big project coming in. I just signed today. Last-minute tickets for three people plus one full-grown human whose only job is to consume coffee—”

“Hey,” Theo protests.

“—are not exactly cheap.”

Papá leans closer to the camera, wearing that classic Latin patriarch expression that does not invite debate. “Arabellita, youre all my kids. Your sister only gets engaged once. You think I don’t know what your bank account looks like? I can send a jet if I have to.”

Fiona piles on. “Come on, Sisteuurr. It’s been so long since we were all together. I want you here. Both of you. And the gremlins.”

“If I go, I get cake?” Max asks.

“Absolutely,” Fiona says.

“Okay, I go,” Max declares, settled.

I look at them on the screen: Fiona with her ring, Mamá already half-crying but still fixing her eyeliner, Papá pretending to be relaxed even though his eyes are shining, Max and Issa already plotting outfits and calculating cake portions.

“Fine,” I say at last, my voice softer than I intend. “We’ll come.”

Cheering erupts on both sides of the call. Fiona almost drops the phone because she gets up and spins, showing off her ring, Mamá launches into a monologue about the party menu, Papá makes Max and Issa promise to eat vegetables if they want to grow tall enough to wear formal clothes.

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “It’s just an engagement party. What’s the worst that could happen?”