"Who did you say you'll be working for?" Mr Lopez's voice carried a tremor—part disbelief, part fear.
Mora froze. The question she'd spent five days dodging had finally cornered her. The weeks after her arrival home had been heavy with restlessness; her father's question only tightened the knot that had been forming in her chest.
"The Aguirre family," she said at last, softly. "They live up-hill… in Los Altos."
The words seemed to slice through the air. Mr Lopez's eyes widened; his lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line
"You're not taking that job."
"Why"? Mora streaked
"That family is known for a lot of trouble. They are extremely dangerous".
"Really? I lived here all my life and I've never even heard of them" Lupita cut in.
"Stop backing up her nonsense." He turned sharply toward Lupita, his frown deepening. "This was your idea, wasn't it?"
"We need the money, Papa," Lupita snapped, meeting his gaze. "We're doing this for Mum."
"Yes—but not for them!" Mr Lopez's voice rose, raw and pleading. "Work for anybody else, Mora. And must you stay with them?"
His desperation was almost tangible now. Mora had never seen her father like this—eyes clouded with something that looked a lot like fear.
"Papa," she asked carefully, "is there something you know about that family you're not telling me?"
He exhaled shakily. "Yes…as I said earlier, they're dangerous, sweetheart. They're into… black market dealings. Things you don't want to be near."
Lupita laughed dryly. "And how would you know that, Papa? What do you know about the black market?"
"Would you shut up!" he barked, then turned back to Mora, taking her hands in his. His palms were trembling. "Listen to me, niña. I'll always support whatever career path you choose. But not this. Not them. Please trust me."
She held his hands tighter. "Let's make a deal," she lied smoothly.
"Just a month, Papa. I'll earn enough to save MariaRosé. After that, I'll quit."
He searched her face, desperate to believe her. After a long silence, he sighed. "A month," he said slowly. "Be observant. Be careful and stay out of trouble."
"I will."
"What are your off days?" he asked.
"I was told to arrange that with my patient."
The room went still.
"So you haven't even met the patient?" Lupita asked, setting a glass down.
"Who interviewed you?" Mr Lopez pressed.
"Ay, Papá…" Mora groaned. "Can we stop the interrogation already? Everything will be fine."
But even as she said it, she wasn't sure she believed it. Every word her father had spoken echoed in her head. There were red flags—too many. The money was the only consolation and if what papa says correlates with the type of uneasy terms she was given, then the figures had the right to be that high-If you could barely call those terms, there were more of orders and warnings, Mora thought.
"Okay, Hermosa," Mr Lopez murmured finally, defeated. "I just hope you know what you're doing."
TEGUILA, Los Altos
(A week later)
______________________________
The Aguirre's were anything but welcoming.
Mora arrived at sunrise, as instructed, and from that moment, not a soul had shown her hospitality apart from the staff who showed her to a small room in the servants' quarters. No introductions. No smiles. Only orders.
She had hoped she would be called for lunch or dinner but nothing. Thank God for Lupita and her thousands of packaged food. Looking back at her family, living them was the hardest thing she had to do. Barely a month back and she was already gone.
Days passed. The quiet thickened. She waited to be summoned, to meet her patient, to do something—but nothing.
What exactly had she been hired for?
Papa's warning replayed in her mind—black market business. Her pulse quickened. She thought of wandering the grounds but remembered Ramona Aguirre's icy voice from the interview:
"You will not wander outside your quarters."
The memory alone was enough to pin her to her bed.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, I'll figure something out.
…
By the ninth day, her patience had evaporated.
She strolled within the servant's quarters, snapping a photo image of every twist and bends of each corridor in her mind. The servant's estate was conjoined with the stables and was completely isolated from the main mansion. Even that was still bigger than her three bed-room family house.
She'd made one friend—the servant who brought her meals. He never shared his name, and whenever she asked about her patient, his answer was always the same:
"Things in this house are never rushed" he said.
And indeed, nothing in that house was.
Then, on the ninth morning, a knock came—two sharp raps on her door.
"Come in," she called, still folding her bedding.
The servant stepped in, face expressionless. "You have been summoned."
Mora blinked. Summoned? Who even says that in 2015?
She followed him down the long marble corridor into the main house. The moment she crossed the threshold, her breath caught.
The Aguirre estate was more cathedral than home—walls lined with portraits of grim-faced men, floors polished to a mirror's sheen. Every corner gleamed of wealth and power, but none of warmth.
Gasping for air since she arrived at this mansion seemed to be her new hobby. The polished set of cream chaise longue stood clockwise at the centre of the room and a large chandelier stood above them. The clothing fabric of the chairs looked rich in quality. At the far end to the left, a huge piano and whine parlour filled the space.
Then she saw them—two portraits dominating the staircase wall: Señora Ramona Aguirre and, beside her, a man whose gaze seemed to command a silence even from paint and canvas. Señor Cabral Aguirre, she guessed. His stare was the kind that lingered in rooms long after you left.
He certainly matched his wife in facial expressions. Mora thought.
They passed six doors before stopping at the fourth. The servant opened it to reveal a dimly lit room.
Two beds. One king, one queen. A large cupboard of books stood near the window.
"Good evening."
The voice startled her. Deep. Cold. It came from the far corner she hadn't yet seen. There, in the shadows, sat a man in a wheelchair—broad-shouldered, with an eye patch and an expression carved from stone
So this was her patient.
"Gustavo will bring your things," he said without looking away.
(Ah, so that's his name) Mora thought absently.
He continued, "That's your bed. The closet beside it is yours. The brown door to the right is the restroom."
He gestured, but his face remained still—unblinking, unreadable.
"The shelf with books is a no go zone area. Under no circumstance," he added sharply, "should you go near that. Am I clear?"
Her throat tightened.
Oh no he's not. Her bed in the same room as his? That's a big no-that was a line she wasn't ready to cross.
"Mr…?" she began.
"Guemo," he interrupted. "Guemo Aguirre."
"I don't think it's wise to sleep in the same room," she said, trying to sound calm.
"Why not?" His tone was void of interest.
"Because I'm a woman."
He gave a dry chuckle. "Please. I've seen better in my days."
"Excuse me?" She snapped
"I'm blind," he said flatly. "If you were half as observant as your résumé claimed, you'd have noticed."
Her cheeks flamed. "I'm sorry—but I still think it's a bad idea."
"How much did my mother offer you?" he asked. "And what exactly did she tell you your duties were?"
So Lady Ramona is his mum. It made sense.
"She said one thousand peso a month and to tend to your every need."
"Good," he said coolly. "And you think that kind of pay is for handing me pills twice a day? I'm crippled, Doctor. Do the math."
She opened her mouth, and then shut it. He wasn't wrong—logistically. Being crippled, she will need to help him move around when he couldn't do things without the wheelchair but his arrogance boiled her blood.
"Alright," she said finally. "Got your point."
"Next time," he snapped, "you won't. Questioning my orders is the first sign you're unfit for this job."
Mora exhaled through gritted teeth. Rude. Definitely worse than his mother.
"The documents on the table detail my medical history. My prescriptions are in the locked cabinet near the cupboard. That is the only reason you should go near it. Understood?"
Her jaw tightened. She wasn't his servant. She was his nurse. He needed her more than she needed him and if this was how he was going to communicate then he better buckle up for some home training. In as much as desperation drove a doctor to take a nursing job doesn't mean there shouldn't be some form of integrity in the dealings.
"Understood," she said at last, her voice cool and sharp as glass.