The office door slammed open so hard it hit the wall.
You still could not move. The sleeping pills and tequila had done exactly what your doctor warned against,pep leaving your body heavy and useless while your mind stayed horribly awake. Through your half-lidded eyes, you saw your mother’s heels first, then the polished brown shoes of your younger brother, Nicolás.
Citlali stepped back from the couch the second she heard them.
She lowered her hands from the edge of the wool blanket she had just tucked around you and straightened instinctively, like a child caught near something expensive. Nicolás looked from your limp body to the blanket to the cash still spilling from your open wallet, and his mouth twisted in surprise. Your mother, Teresa Garza, did not look surprised at all. She looked
“So this is the one?” she said, glancing at Citlali like she was a smudge on crystal.
Citlali swallowed. “Sir wasn’t feeling well.”
Nicolás gave a short, humorless laugh. “He’s been ‘not feeling well’ for three years.”
Even in that drugged stillness, something in you tightened.
Citlali kept her eyes lowered, but she did not reach for the money, and she did not touch the contracts scattered near your shoes. She said, very quietly, “Should I call the doctor?” There was no greed in her voice. No curiosity. Just the plain human instinct to help someone who looked broken.
Your mother waved her off with one sharp flick of her wrist.
“No doctor. And you didn’t see anything.” She took two steps into the office, lowering her voice in a way that made your skin prickle. “Go finish the upstairs hallway. Now.”
Citlali hesitated.
It was only a heartbeat, maybe less, but you caught it. She was not just frightened. She was listening. Nicolás caught it too, and his tone hardened.
“Didn’t you hear her?”
Citlali nodded once and turned toward the door. But she moved more slowly than before, just slowly enough to be useful. Just slowly enough for your family to forget she was still there.
The moment she reached the hallway, your mother exhaled and looked down at you with cold disgust.
“This cannot happen again before Thursday,” she said.
Nicolás walked to your desk, picked up the nearest contract, and flipped through it. “If he misses the board vote, the auditors will start asking questions we can’t control.”
Your mother’s voice dropped lower. “Then keep him upright. You always said he was easier to manage when he was exhausted.”
You felt the air leave your lungs.
Manage.
Not help. Not protect. Not love. Manage.
Nicolás tossed the contract back onto the desk. “He’s starting to dig again. He asked for Elena’s old foundation files last week.”
Your mother went still.
For the first time since she entered the room, there was something like fear in her face. It appeared and disappeared so fast another man might have missed it. But grief had taught you to notice every flicker people tried to hide.
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