Not loud. Not dramatic.
But heavy.
Victor felt it hit him deeper than he expected—not just because of the words, but because of how normal they sounded coming from her.
Like she had already accepted it.
Like this was just… life.
“How do you know that?” he asked gently.
“I heard her crying on the phone,” Ximena said. “She thought I was asleep. She said she came to work with a fever… but they told her if she missed days before, she didn’t deserve anything.”
She paused for a second, gripping her backpack tighter.
“My mommy never cries.”
That part stayed.
It stayed in a way that made Victor’s chest feel tight.
For a brief moment, the hotel disappeared around him. The lights, the marble, the wealth—it all faded.
And he was somewhere else.
Years ago.
A small apartment. Cold nights. His own mother coming home exhausted, sick, pretending everything was fine just so he wouldn’t worry.
He blinked, pulling himself back.
Victor slowly stood up.
His expression had changed.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something colder.
He glanced toward the front desk. The staff continued their routine, eyes down, smiles rehearsed. No one had noticed. Or maybe… no one wanted to.
“Rafa,” Victor said quietly.
One of the men behind him stepped forward immediately. “Yes.”
“Find out who’s in charge tonight.”
