"Yup! Certainly one of the big people" Mora muttered under her breath.
She stood in the vast courtyard; nearly eight meters wide, her eyes roaming in awe over the mansion perched on the hill of Los Altos. The sheer size of it made her feel small, almost insignificant. The outer façade resembled something torn from the pages of a fairy-tale—an estate fit for princes and kings.
From the heavy stonework to the ornate carvings, Mora could tell the owner was a descendant of old money—and a die-hard traditionalist at that. The mansion bore the signature of eighteenth-century Spanish aristocracy: thick whitewashed walls, soaring ceilings, grand wooden doors, and delicately patterned tiles that whispered of a bygone era.
Even the courtyard stones gleamed with wealth, as if each one had been handpicked from the first batch of buzos—the legendary sea-jewel collectors. This house wasn't just expensive; it was ancestral, the kind of inheritance that came from centuries of power and privilege.
A uniformed personal de servicio ushered her forward, along with what she assumed were other candidates. They moved as a pack, their necks craned, and eyes darting like children in a palace, trying to drink in every detail.
If the outside had stunned them, the interior left them breathless. Gone was the colonial austerity. Inside, the mansion unfolded with a modern elegance—glass and polished stone meeting warm, handcrafted wood, the space glowing with understated luxury. Every chandelier seemed to drip with stories, every corridor hummed with a quiet authority.
Mora's mind wandered as she crossed the polished floors: mansions like this always had names. In common Mexican tradition, they were never just houses—they were estates, legacies, characters in their own right. She wondered what this one was called, and what secrets its walls might be keeping.
"This way", le personal de servicio ushered them into an empty vast room aligned with wooden chairs. Again, the material sued class and wealth. Each applicant took a sit. Usually, Mora was not the shy type but the ambiance of the mansion intimidated her so much she feared going in first for interview. She took a sit on the second but lasts row next to the silk curtains. She watched as each applicant was called. After that, they didn't show up again. Her heart raised; this was her first official interview after graduation. She went over the possible questions she could be asked in her mind, answering them as she asked them.
"Morena López," a voice finally called.
Her name sliced through the air like a verdict. She rose, smoothing down her thin skirt, trying to quiet the riot inside her chest with slow, measured breaths. In and out, in and out—it didn't work. Her heart kept up its reckless drum.
He led her through a corridor that opened into a room far too exquisite to be called an office. It was furnished like a tea parlour—lace curtains, mahogany furniture, the faint scent of jasmine wafting from a porcelain teapot on the table.
"Morena... López?" The man who called her name looked up from the shit of paper on the table, his voice deep and unhurried. He was well-built, with sleek dark hair and a calm confidence that made the air around him feel smaller. He looked like someone who belonged in a countryside novella—hands on the reins of a horse, shirt unbuttoned halfway, a man made for dust and sunlight.
"Yes," Mora managed, forcing a polite smile.
The man sitting across her-although ruggedly handsome looked too casual to be the owner of the mansion but the older lady next to him, ensued Reina. Her posture, gestures and even appearance was nothing short of money and elegance. It was usually hard detecting the age of very wealthy people. Money had a way of making them seem younger but looking at the serial lines of green veins that ran through her knuckles and collarbone, she looked like someone in her late sixties. Her violet suit was perfectly tailored, her hair—a blend of ash and gold—pulled into a neat ponytail that sharpened her facial features. Her face, though tastefully made-up, carried a natural look of superiority—the kind the rich wore like perfume.
"Why so tense?" the man asked suddenly, amusement curling in his tone. Mora gasped within her, embarrassed at how evident it was.
"I'm not tense, sir," she lied, her voice slightly higher than usual.
Ok this was getting awkward. A voice whispered within her.
He grinned slightly. "Alright, before we begin— I'm Antonio Suárez, and beside me is the Lady of this estate, Señora Ramona Cabral Aguirre."
"Happy to meet your acquaintance" Mora said offering her hand across the tea table.
Señora Aguirre looked at it as though it were something unsanitary. Mora quickly withdrew, cheeks burning from embarrassment.
Yup! Definitely not the friendly type! She thought.
Antonio seemed unaffected by the slight. He continued smoothly, "We'll ask a few questions and contact you by email if you're selected."
Mora nodded.
"Where did you receive your training again?" he asked, not bothering to check the paper in front of him which had her credentials.
"GKT School of Medical Education, London."
"Experience?"
"Yes. While in school, I did several internships and part-time jobs in care centres, hospitals, and NGOs. I also interned with the medical personnel assigned to the House of Windsor—"
"That's all fine and lovely," Señora Aguirre cut in sharply, her tone sly and condescending. "But let's get to the chase. This job requires full discretion and complete commitment. Do you understand—and can you deliver?"
Mora straightened. "I would need to know what kind of discretion this entails, and how committed you expect me to be."
The woman's lips twisted. "In this family, Miss…"—she glanced at the paper in front of her—"…López, discretion is not optional. I work well with people who mind their business and keep their mouths shut. If you work here, your life will revolve around your patient. You will not wander outside your quarters, nor listen to conversations that don't concern you. No word of your patient's condition or this family's affairs will ever leave these walls. You'll live here—servants' quarters—and a bodyguard will be assigned to you. You attend to your patient's every need. No complaints. Visiting and off-days will be scheduled between you and your patient. Unfortunately, he hasn't giving me powers beyond this. Are we clear so far?"
Mora blinked.
Live here? Assigned a bodyguard? Servant's quarters?
That definitely wasn't part of her plan. But it was still an interview—things could be adjusted later if she got the job.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. How long have you been here?"
"Huh?" Mora asked, momentarily lost in the swirl of instructions.
Lady Ramona eyed her.
"Sorry—I was born here, but I schooled mostly abroad."
"From when?" she asked scribbling something on the shit of paper.
"Middle school"
"Mhm! So all these terms—acceptable to you?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. For your compensation…"
She slid the paper toward Mora.
Mora's breath caught. The figures splattered on that shit made her eyes widen. One month of that could save MariaRosé and still leave enough to build her dream.
She forgot her reservations, forgot the unease that came with those terms, forgot everything but the digits staring back at her like salvation.
Lady Ramona's next question came softly, but it carried weight
"One last thing—would you say this job is a want, or a need?"
She netted her fingers with each other on the table while leaning closer, her eyes narrowing, studying her carefully and searching for cracks or truth as she waited for an answer.
The dignified response to that would have been 'want' to avoid sounding desperate to a potential employer with hopes of increasing compensatory figures. In this case, there was no point for decency; she was going to answer the question as she felt.
"Need" Mora replied. She told the truth. She was desperate to save that restaurant and money like that could set her for life.
Ramona's expression didn't change "How much?"
"Well…" Mora hesitated, then met her eyes. "Let's just say my mother's legacy depends on it."
After a brief moment of silent eye-contact, she nodded finally.
"Good. You're hired. You'll begin in a week. Use the time to settle your affairs. Your first pay check will be issued once you move in—servants' quarters, as stated."
She rose, grace flowing through every movement. Antonio stood as well.
"Anton, dismiss the others," she said coolly as they left the room.
Mora sat frozen, her mind blank, her eyes wide.
What just happened?
No mention of meeting her patient. No medical files. No explanation of what—or who—she'd be treating. Only that staggering piece of paper staring back at her from the table.
She picked up the paper, whispering under her breath,
"With figures like this… who needs to ask too many questions?"