Martina's POV
"Rent is overdue, Martina."
My eyes open before the alarm sounds, with my phone already lit up in the dark. I look into three messages left by my landlord, all in various forms, saying the same thing. Pay today. Call me. Last warning.
"I know," I say, although nobody is listening.
The heater has not functioned in weeks, and the cold is seeping through my scrawny blanket as I sit up. The roof of my room is broken, yet I do not see it anymore. I have learnt to avoid performing too much staring at things that I cannot repair.
I shower in a few minutes, plait my hair behind my head and put on my hotel uniform. I am reflected in the mirror, and I can easily ignore the appearance of a girl. Pale, thin, quiet. People forget the point at which they turn away.
That is not an accident.
My survival is through being invisible.
I already feel the life of the hotel lobby, which is illuminated with gentle lights and smooth floors. Guests walk by me, encircled in perfume and confidence, babbling about flights and meetings and money. None of them sees me.
"Martina!"
I stop instantly.
Sofia Mendez walks in my direction with her heels making noises on the marble. She glances over me with evident dislike.
"You're late again," she says.
"I am early," I said to myself, and I put my head down. "I'm sorry."
She snorts. "Sorry, don't clean rooms."
She thrusts a pile of boxes into my hands. "West Wing. Then housekeeping. And this time keep off falling."
"I won't," I say quickly.
She smiles and nods her head, saying she does not believe me.
I work without stopping. I deliver boxes, clean counters, refill carts, and clear out of the way when my guests complain about things not my fault. My arms are hurting, my back is burning, but still, I do not slow down.
Complainers do not stand the test of time.
My hands are trembling by midday, and Sofia comes into sight again. Her look is incisive, indescribable.
"New task," she says.
"Yes?" I straighten immediately.
She gives me a brown, thick envelope. "You're delivering this. Now."
I look down, and my breath is stopped.
Diego Holdings.
The hallway goes quiet.
"Carlos Diego?" someone whispers.
The staff are afraid to move quickly. I've heard the stories. Everyone has. Carlos Diego goes ahead and puts fire to complete departments. He kills businesses, and he gets wealthier.
"I never made outside deliveries," I say to myself very cautiously.
Sofia steps closer. "Are you refusing?"
"No," I answered at once. "I'll go."
"Good," she says coldly. "Don't embarrass us."
There is no feeling like that of the hotel in the Diego Holdings building. It is cold and still, all glass and steel. The receptionist examines my uniform as though it is dirty.
"It is floor 32," she says after reading the envelope.
The ride in the elevator seems to have no end.
As the doors open, I enter a big boardroom, full of dark-suited people. At the top of the table, we have a man whose presence fills the room with effortlessness.
Carlos Diego.
He addresses me without looking into my face. "Fix it. Or leave."
No one argues.
I move, as my feet are falling too loud to the floor.
I said subduedly, "Delivery from the hotel."
He looks up.
His eyes are keen and illegible, and I have the impression of being gauged and rejected within a quarter of a moment.
I handed him the envelope. My fingers slip.
The articles are lying all over the floor.
The sound is sudden and final.
The room freezes.
I say I am sorry, falling to retrieve them.
"Stop."
His intonation is so drop-calm and yet deeper than a scream.
I freeze on my knees.
"Is this how you work?" he inquired in a flat and loud tone that everybody heard. "You can't even manage paper."
"It was an accident," I whisper.
He makes a brief, humourless laugh. "This isn't a street job. This is Diego Holdings."
A few people smile. Someone snickers.
"You're careless," he continues. And people such as you can be easily changed.
The term is even more striking than I anticipated.
Replaceable.
He turns to security. "Escort her out. I do not waste time on incompetence."
Powerful hands put me on my feet. I don't resist. I won't give him that.
The sunshine is blinding in the outside world.
I keep on going until I lose sight of the building behind me, my chest tight and burning. I don't cry. Crying wastes energy.
I never want to walk over him again, I say to myself. "Never."
I count coins on my bed that night, and I know that it will not be enough.
My phone buzzes.
The screen is illuminated by a news alert.
BREAKING NEWS: CARLOS DIEGO ACQUIRES MAJORITY OWNERSHIP OF MADRID LUXURY HOTEL GROUP.
My stomach drops.
The hotel.
My job.
My only safety.
I look at the screen as one fact sinks cold and heavy in my heart.
I did not see Carlos Diego today.
I entered directly into his world--and now he rules mine.