You lie perfectly still in the middle of the Italian silk sheets, every muscle locked, every breath measured. The stacks of cash around you smell like paper, ink, and your own arrogance. For the last twenty minutes, you have been congratulating yourself on the brilliance of the test, certain that five hundred thousand pesos spread across a bed would reveal exactly what kind of woman Carmen really was. You expected temptation to speak louder than dignity.
Instead, the first hands you feel near your face do not belong to your housekeeper.
They move fast, greedy, practiced, scooping bundles with the kind of urgency that comes from fear and appetite living in the same body. A sweet cloud of expensive French perfume hits you so hard you nearly open your eyes on instinct. You know that perfume. You bought it in Paris for Valeria on a weekend she spent complaining about your schedule and your taste in hotel suites.
Then you hear Carmen gasp.
It is not the gasp of a thief seeing opportunity. It is the sharp, startled intake of someone who has walked into danger she does not understand. You keep your eyelids heavy and your breathing deep, but your mind goes cold and bright all at once. Valeria is not supposed to be here. Carmen is supposed to come in alone, see the money, and tell you who she really is.
Instead, you are about to find out who Valeria is.
“Don’t just stand there,” Valeria whispers, voice tight and furious. “Help me.”
The sentence lands so hard you almost move.
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