Sunrises in Puebla, men, they don't mess around. Everything gets dunked in that wild, golden glow, rooftops soaking it up like they're stealing fire from the gods. Roosters are already screaming their heads off, church bells chiming like they've got something to prove, and the smell of tortillas just drifting everywhere, mixing right in with the gossip. Life's real here. No glitz, no fairy tale. Just folks scraping by, trading dreams for groceries.
No one's waltzing around in silk or sipping bubbly, let's put it that way. Here, you hustle or you go hungry. And smack in the middle is Isabella Morales.
She's staring at herself down in this busted old mirror, hanging crooked like the universe's idea of a joke. Hair black as midnight, all wavy, and she's braiding it up like she's got all the time in the world spoiler: she doesn't. Her eyes? Deep and sharp enough to make you forget what you were saying, not that she ever noticed. To her, they're just her mom's eyes. To everyone else? Straight-up magic. People mutter she doesn't belong here, like she got dropped in by accident.
"She's from another world, I swear," neighbors whisper. "Too pretty for dirt. Too stubborn for broke."
Yeah, right. Isabella? She doesn't buy it. Being beautiful here isn't some lottery win it's a target on your back. Guys look at her and see a prize, not a person. Women think her face is some kind of cheat code, but honestly, it's just another thing to carry.
She ties off her braid with a sad little ribbon and pulls on a dress that's seen better days, but hey, it's clean. She grabs her basket and heads out, bracing herself for whatever the day's going to throw at her.
Home? Two cramped rooms, patched together with more hope than money. Walls flaking blue paint like they're shedding old skin, roof leaks when it feels dramatic, floor's always cold. But it's home, you know?
Her dad checked out early construction accident, just more debts and a couple of hard-luck stories left behind. Her mom, Elena, never really bounced back. Grief, sickness, the whole sad package. Then there's Mateo, her kid brother twelve and somehow still smiling like he doesn't know how rough things are. Isabella carries all of it. Every single day.
Out on the street, it's chaos vendors yelling over each other, chickens squawking, dogs barking, kids tearing around barefoot, all elbows and laughter. Isabella keeps her head down, eyes sharp. Every coin matters. Every price is a tiny battle her mom's medicine, Mateo's school stuff, everything.
Then, "Isabella!" It's Rosa, waving her down from behind a mountain of fruit. Rosa's basically the opposite of Isabella short, round, always laughing too loud, and absolutely fearless.
"Buenos días," Isabella says, sort of shy. "Buenos días?" Rosa fires back, full of fake drama. "You look dead on your feet. Up all night with your mamá again?" Isabella shrugs, eyes dropping. "She was coughing bad. Didn't want her to choke." Rosa softens up, hands her a shiny apple. "For Mateo. Don't even try to argue."
Isabella protests, but Rosa's got that look. She just takes it and stashes it in her basket. "Gracias," she mumbles.
Rosa leans in, dropping her voice. "You hear the latest?"
"What?"
"Ethan Cole's coming to Mexico City next week."
Isabella squints. "Who?"
Rosa acts like it's a crime. "You don't know? Richest guy alive! American billionaire, runs the world, scary as hell. They say he's basically a wolf with a bank account."
Isabella just rolls her eyes. "Why should I care about some rich dude?"
Rosa grins. "People like him? They change lives. Maybe he'll see you"
"No," Isabella shoots back, sharp. "Guys like that don't see girls like me. And even if they did, I don't want that kind of trouble." Rosa just laughs. "You never know."
The rest of the day? Same old grind. Isabella deals, stretches coins until they almost snap, hauls her basket home beans, rice, med that still cost way too much. She cooks, scrubs, soothes her mom, listens to Mateo talk about school like he's got all the answers.
But, honestly, Rosa's words? They kind of stick, buzzing in the back of her head, no matter how hard she tries to shake them loose.
That night, once the house finally shut up and everyone drifted off, Isabella parked herself by the window, knees tucked up, chin balancing on top. Moonlight soaked her face sharp, cold, like it was trying to wake her up or something. She started tracing random shapes in the sky with her finger, like she was trying to doodle on the night itself. Dreaming? Yeah, not really her thing these days. Life had pretty much sucker-punched that habit right out of her.
Still… this damn name Ethan Cole. Stuck in her mind, like some weird echo, beating in the back of her brain. She didn't really know him, not truly. Just pictured a dude in a suit, probably expensive as hell, money falling out of his pockets like he didn't even notice. His world? Light away. Guys like that? They built their fancy towers by stomping out places like hers. Guys like that? The reason her father never made it back from that busted scaffolding. Nope. Not happening. She clenched her jaw. Men like Ethan Cole? Admire them? Not in this lifetime. They were the enemy. Case closed.
Except… there it was again that weird little buzz under her skin. Like fate had just reached out and poked her, just to mess with her.
Somewhere out there, Ethan Cole was probably kicking back in some glass palace, running his empire or whatever. She had no clue, but the universe was already shoving their lives onto a crash course two threads yanked together by hands she couldn't see. Yeah, a collision was coming. No getting out of it.
And when it hit? Everything would be up for grabs his power, her stubbornness, the whole messy line between loving someone and getting wrecked by them. Morning at the Marketplace Sun barely up, already burning off the night chill, and Isabella's back in the marketplace her town's lifeblood. The place was buzzing voices weaving this crazy, noisy tapestry. Vendors yelling, trying to out-bargain each other for pesos. Kids keep doing zig-zagging through the crowd, giggling and shrieking, carrying whatever errands their moms had tossed at them. The air? Thick with the smell of fried gorditas, roasted corn… honestly, it made your stomach growl if you had one peso or a hundred.
She shifted the basket on her shoulder, itchy, biting into her skin just like always. Only thirty pesos stashed in her dress hem. Not much, but hell, she'd made less stretch farther. Hunger makes you sharp, not soft. At Don Alberto's stall, she stopped. Tomatoes—red, split open from the sun. She picked out the tiny ones, weighing them in her palm, acting like she had all the time in the world. "How much for these?" she tossed out. Don Alberto looked her way, wrinkles folding into something almost kind. "For you, niña, five pesos." She snorted, gave him a half-smile. "They're worth three, Don."
He laughed, shaking his head. "Your father argued just like that. Fine, three it is."
She slid the coins across, tomatoes in the basket, moving on except, wait. There's this kid at the end of the stall. Little, grubby, staring at the fruit like he might start drooling. Clothes ripped, face smeared with half the marketplace dirt.
Isabella crouched, grabbed a tomato, and pressed it into his hands. "Share with your sister," she mumbled.
Kid's eyes went wide, like she'd handed him a winning lottery ticket. He vanished, clutching it like gold. Don Alberto just shook his head. "You'll give it all away, Isa. Nothing left for yourself."
She shrugged. "I'll manage." Truth? She skipped more meals than she ate, but whatever. She hit the butcher's bones, not meat, because that's all she could swing. The baker handed her old bread, apologized like he owed her more. She traded reading lessons with the herb lady's daughter for a bundle of cilantro. Every bite she'd eat that night would be a little piece of herself traded away. By the time her basket sagged heavy, the pesos were gone. She'd managed a meal out of thin air again.
Just as she was heading out, Rosa popped up arms overloaded with mangoes, face lit up. "Isa! Been looking for you. Did you hear? A film crew's coming from Mexico City next week. They're filming a commercial here!"
Isabella laughed, quiet and tired. "And what's that got to do with us?"
Rosa grinned, all mischief. "Maybe they'll need extras. Maybe you could"
"Nope." Isabella cut her off, fast. "That world? Not for me."
Rosa's grin slipped, but she nudged Isa's shoulder like always. "You always say that, girl. One day, someone's gonna look at you and know you don't belong slinging onions in this market. You're meant for something bigger, trust me."
Isabella just shook her head, white-knuckling the basket like it was an anchor. "Nah. I'm right where I belong. With my family. That's all I need."
Back at the Morales house yeah, the same old place, blue paint flaking off in chunks, tin sheets clinging to the roof like afterthoughts Isa pushed open the door. Her mother's cough hit her right away, deep and ugly. Not a good sign, but at this point, it was like background noise.
"Mamá?" She dropped the basket and rushed to the bedroom. Elena Morales, propped up on pillows, looked like a ghost of herself skin almost see-through, lips cracked, but she managed a tired little smile when Isa walked in.
"You took so long," her mom whispered, voice barely there.
"I was at the market." Isa knelt, fishing cilantro out of her basket. "Brought this for your tea. Maybe it'll help with the coughing."
Her mother's hand shook as she reached out, brushing Isa's braid. "You do too much, mi hija."
Isa kissed her hand, trying not to let the worry show. "Not more than you did for us, Mamá."
Her mom just closed her eyes, sighing. Isa knew things were getting worse, but, honestly, what could she do except keep moving? She didn't have time to fall apart.
"Isa!" Mateo's voice rang from outside. Isa left her mom's side and found her little brother hunched over schoolbooks in the courtyard, chewing on his pencil like it owed him money.
"I hate this problem," he grumbled, jabbing at his math homework.
Isa plopped down next to him and took the pencil. "Look, you just carry the number see? Boom, done."
Mateo's face lit up. "How do you always know this stuff?"
She smirked, ruffling his hair. "I'm older, that's my secret weapon. Someday you'll be teaching me, just wait."
He grinned, but she caught the tired shadows under his eyes. Kid looked way too serious for a twelve-year-old. Isa slipped him the apple Rosa gave her. "Here, eat. I saved it for you."
He bit in, eyes going wide. "Gracias, Isa."
Watching him eat, Isa felt something twist in her chest pride, yeah, but also that sinking sadness. She'd give up anything food, sleep, even her own dreams if it meant Mateo could have a shot at something better.
That was her life. Taking care of her mom. Watching over her brother. Making sacrifices nobody saw, holding everything together with sheer stubbornness.
Her Side Hustles & Sacrifices
Evenings didn't mean rest for Isa. Didn't matter if it was dark or if her hands hurt she lugged laundry down to the river, scrubbing until her fingers stung. Mended torn dresses for half the block, burning her eyes out by candlelight. Braided the neighborhood girls' hair every Sunday, collecting coins their moms pressed into her palm like little secrets.
Some nights, she was up steaming tamales for the plaza, fighting sleep while the kitchen filled with the smell of masa and exhaustion. Other times, she cleaned rich folks' houses, biting her tongue as she wiped floors she'd never get to walk on for herself.
No gig was beneath her. Every peso counted. Every little effort mattered because if she didn't do it, who would?
One night, after what felt like a dozen years crammed into a single day, Isa sat outside under the stars. Her hands throbbed, eyes gritty, but she whispered into the dark anyway. Not sure if it was a prayer or just desperation leaking out. "Let Mateo have more. Let him study. Let him get free."
No answer from the universe, obviously. But she clung to hope anyway. Hope was the only thing she let herself keep.
Her Service to the Community
Isabella didn't just pour herself out for her family honestly, the whole town got a piece of her, whether they asked for it or not.
At the church, she hustled up food drives, snatching up whatever leftovers the market vendors would toss her way. Somebody's kid needed to learn their letters? She'd plop down under that creaky old oak tree, flipping through Mateo's beat-up textbooks and making it happen. She'd be elbow-deep in laundry with the widows, lugging buckets for the old folks, or just sitting with women in labor when everyone else had vanished. No doctor? No problem Isabella would just be there.
People started saying she had the heart of Puebla beating right in her chest. They whispered about her some admired her grit, some rolled their eyes and said she was a martyr. Bit of envy, bit of pity, but not a single person could manage to disrespect her. Not unless they wanted the whole town on their back.
Rosa, her best friend and professional worrier, used to nag her all the time. "Isa, you give too much. Who's got your back, huh?" Isabella would just shrug, give this tired little smile. "I don't need much, Rosie." Thing is, sometimes, in those quiet, achy spots in her chest, she wondered if maybe Rosa was onto something. Who was gonna pick her up if she ever really crashed?
Moments of Hope & Quiet Dreams
Those late nights, after everyone else had knocked out, Isabella let herself drift a little. She'd sit by the window, moonlight painting the wall, and picture a different life. Not some fancy soap opera stuff just a world where her mom could breathe easy, where Mateo's toes didn't poke holes through his shoes, where her own hands weren't always cracked and sore from scrubbing and carrying and doing.
Sometimes, yeah, her mind wandered to love. Not the "you owe me" kind, but the real deal a guy who saw her as something to treasure, not just a problem to solve or a mule to load up. Someone whose hands were strong but not rough, whose eyes didn't just see her work but her spark.
But dreams are just that, right? She'd fold them up inside herself, neat as letters she'd never send, and get ready to face the day.
Because Isabella Morales wasn't living for Isabella. She was holding it all up for everybody else her family, her neighbors, anyone who needed a hand. Survival first, happiness…maybe never.
Funny how life works, though. She had no clue that soon, this guy named Ethan Cole walking storm cloud, never gave a damn about anybody was about to crash through everything she thought she knew about giving and taking. And that? That was gonna flip her world upside down.