CHAPTER 9

The old blue bus rattled violently as it hit the pothole outside the village gate. Every bump sent a jolt straight to my ribs, but I barely felt it. My hand was clamped tight over the zipper of my bag, where five thousand euros were stuffed deep into the lining. Five thousand. I was so close. The image of the man in the charcoal suit kept flashing behind my eyes, the smell of his expensive tobacco lingering on my skin despite the heavy layer of sweat from the bus ride. I shook my head, trying to erase the memory of his heavy hands on my waist. He was gone. He was just a ghost who paid for a night, and I was finally back to reality.

I snuck through the back gate of the Alarcón mansion, slipping past the towering stone pillars. The air here was tense. Servants were scurrying across the courtyard like ants in a panic.

The moment I stepped into the laundry room, my mother lunged at me. She didn't ask how my study class went. She didn't even look at my tired face. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin.

"¡Muévete, Valeria! Put on your uniform right now!" she hissed, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and excitement. "The house is in chaos. He is back."

"Who is back, Mamá?" I asked, pulling my arm away, my heart doing a sudden, violent flip.

"Señor Mateo," she said, smoothing down her own apron with shaking hands. "He arrived yesterday, and the Patron is already demanding a flawless house. But that is not all. A telegram came from the airport. Master Diego is landing this evening. ¡Hoy mismo! We must prepare a grand feast for the two sons. Move, before the head housekeeper sees you standing there like an idiot!"

My breath caught in my throat. Mateo was back. The boy from the rose garden, the prince I had spent seventeen years obsessing over, was under this very roof. A strange, desperate joy flared up in my chest, completely burying the exhaustion in my bones. He was here. He hadn't forgotten this place.

"Go to the kitchen!" my mother ordered, shoving a heavy iron pot into my hands. "They need help with the paella and the roasted meats. ¡Date prisa!"

For the next four hours, I was trapped in a hell of steam, grease, and screaming cooks. The kitchen smelled of garlic, saffron, and roasting lamb. My arms burned from lifting massive trays, and the heat from the industrial stoves made my skin slick with sweat. I worked like a dog, but my mind was completely upstairs, wondering what Mateo looked like now. Wondering if he would look at me and remember the girl who used to read books with him by the stone pillar.

Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the kitchen swung open. Doña Carmen, the cruel, sharp-faced chief maid, marched in. She completely ignored the frantic chefs and walked straight toward my mother, her heels clicking sharply on the tile.

"¡Oye, Rosa!" Carmen barked, her voice dripping with venom. She pointed a long, bony finger at my mother's face. "Your useless daughter needs to get out of this kitchen right now. She is to go upstairs and clean Master Diego’s master suite. He is a lord, and he expects his sheets to be crisp and his floors to be spotless the exact second he steps through those doors. If there is a single speck of dust when he arrives, it is your neck on the line. ¿Me entiendes?"

"Sí, Doña Carmen," my mother whispered, bowing her head in humiliation. She turned to me, her eyes wide with panic. "Go, Valeria! Clean it fast. Run!"

I dropped my rag and hurried out of the kitchen, taking the back stairs to avoid the grand hallway. But as I reached the second-floor corridor, the cheap burner phone in my apron pocket began to vibrate violently.

I slipped into an empty linen closet and pulled it out. It was a private number.

"Luna," a deep, smooth voice purred through the receiver the moment I answered. It was one of the heavy-spending regular clients from Club Máscara, a wealthy businessman who had been trying to book me for weeks. "I heard you worked a private shift last night. I want you for the entire weekend. Name your price. I'll pay double what anyone else gives you."

"I am unavailable this weekend, señor," I whispered, my eyes darting toward the closet door, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Don't play difficult with me, Luna," he pressed, his voice dripping with arrogance. "Every woman has a price, and I know how much you want to get across the ocean. Let's talk numbers."

I tried to hang up, but he kept talking, dangling a figure that made my head spin. I stayed on the line for too long, arguing, negotiating, trapped in the persona of Luna while the clock on the wall kept ticking. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. By the time I finally slammed the phone shut, a sudden, booming noise echoed from the courtyard below.

The loud, synchronized honking of heavy engines shattered the silence of the estate.

I rushed to the narrow hallway window and gasped. A massive convoy of black luxury SUVs was rolling up the gravel driveway. Diego was already here.

Panic seized my chest. I ran down the long corridor toward Diego's master suite, my breath coming in short, terrified gasps. The room was massive, featuring high ceilings, a king-sized canopy bed, and expensive mahogany furniture. I grabbed a duster and a bucket of polish, frantically wiping down the main desk, my hands shaking so hard I almost spilled the liquid. I wasn't fast enough. The room was too big, and I had lost too much time.

Down in the courtyard, the door to the lead SUV was flung open. Diego Alarcón stepped out, adjusting his designer sunglasses. He looked like a storm cloud, his jaw tight and his posture radiating pure arrogance as he looked up at his father's house. He had just spent years in the UK, and he clearly despised being back in Madrid.

At the exact same moment, a standard, non-descript taxi pulled up right behind the convoy.

Mateo stepped out of the backseat. He had stopped at a luxury hotel downtown hours earlier to wash away the scent of Club Máscara, changing into a tailored navy suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly. He smelled intensely of expensive woodsmoke and high-end cologne, his dark hair neatly combed back.

"Welcome back, brother," Mateo said, his voice flat and devoid of real warmth as he approached Diego on the steps.

Diego didn't even take off his sunglasses. He just let out a cold snort. "Save it, Mateo. Let's just get inside out of this heat."

The Patron stood at the top of the grand staircase, flanked by Doña Carmen and a line of bowing servants. "Diego! Mateo!" the old man boomed, a proud but stern look on his face. "The house is yours. Carmen, show Diego to his quarters immediately so he may refresh himself before the feast."

"Right away, Patron," Carmen said, bowing low. She turned to Diego, her face twisting into a fake, sycophantic smile. "Please follow me, Master Diego. Your room has been prepared to the highest standard."

I was still on my knees, frantically scrubbing the baseboards near the heavy oak wardrobe, when the brass doorknob turned.

The door swung wide open.

Doña Carmen stepped into the room, gesturing grandly for Diego to enter. But the moment her eyes landed on me, on my knees, with a dirty bucket and a rag in my hand, surrounded by unpolished furniture, her face turned bright red with fury.

Diego stopped dead in the doorway. He looked down at me like I was a piece of garbage rotting on his expensive rug. He snatched his sunglasses off his face, his eyes flashing with disgust. "What the hell is this?" Diego snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Is this how you welcome me? A dirty maid groveling on the floor while I am trying to rest? You clearly don't respect me or my time in this house."

The Patron, who had followed his sons up the stairs, peered over Diego's shoulder. His face darkened instantly into a mask of absolute rage. "Carmen! Why is this room not ready? Why is this servant still here?"

"¡Inútil! ¡Eres una imbécil!" Carmen shrieked.

Before I could even stand up to defend myself, Carmen lunged forward. Her hand flew through the air, and a sharp, stinging slap echoed through the massive bedroom, striking me squarely across the face.

The force of the blow knocked me sideways against the hard mahogany wardrobe. My cheek burned with a blinding, white-hot pain, and tears of pure shock stung my eyes.

"¡Valeria!" a desperate voice screamed from the hallway.

My mother came bursting through the door, her face pale as a ghost, her hands flying to her mouth as she saw me collapsed on the floor.