“I’m so proud of you,” I whispered into her hair. “So incredibly proud. You were amazing up there, Lily.”
She pulled back enough to look at me, and her mouth opened like she wanted to say something. The word came out broken and raw and perfect.
“Mom.”
My heart split wide open. “Yes, sweetheart. Your Mom. Did she like dancing too?”
Lily nodded while fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and I pulled her close again, let her cry until she was empty.
Delia disappeared for a moment and returned with a small bag. She knelt down and pulled out a pair of pink ballet shoes, the soft leather kind that molded to your feet.
“These are for you,” she said, placing them in Lily’s hands. “A gift, because every dancer needs proper shoes. You can come back whenever you want, and we’ll dance together. Does that sound good?”
Lily clutched the shoes to her chest and nodded, then surprised both of us by wrapping her arms around Delia in a tight hug.
We stayed in the studio for another hour while Lily explored the space, and when we finally left, she fell asleep in the cab on the way home with those pink shoes still clutched in her hands.
The days after that settled into a different rhythm. Lily started watching ballet videos during our sessions, her eyes glued to the screen while dancers performed impossible movements. She’d pause the video and try the steps in the living room, her form improving each time.
I spent more time at the penthouse, and Gianna started joining us for lunch, her chatter filling the space while Mrs. Pearson brought food.
“Mom says Mr. Valdez used to cook,” Gianna mentioned one afternoon while we sat in the kitchen. “Not just supervise or critique, but get in the kitchen and create entire menus from scratch.”
I paused mid-bite. “Hector? Our Hector? The man who looks like he’d rather eat glass than smile?”
Mrs. Pearson walked in carrying fresh coffee and caught the end of my comment. Her lips twitched in what might have been amusement.
“Mr. Valdez was quite different before the accident,” she said, setting down the coffee pot. “He had a warmth about him, a passion for life. He’d spend hours in the kitchen experimenting with recipes, and he’d sing while he cooked. Not well, mind you, but enthusiastically.”
The image of Hector singing while cooking was so absurd that I actually laughed. “Singing? Are we talking about the same person? The one who probably schedules his breathing?”
“The very same.” Mrs. Pearson’s expression softened with memory. “Mrs. Valdez used to joke that he fell in love with ingredients the way other men fell in love with sports cars. He knew every farmer’s market vendor by name, could tell you the exact day tomatoes would be at their peak. The kitchen was his sanctuary.”
Gianna leaned forward, clearly invested in this story. “What happened to all that?”
“The accident happened,” Mrs. Pearson said quietly. “After that, he never cooked again.”
Something uncomfortable twisted in my chest. I tried to imagine Hector with warmth, with passion, with anything other than that controlled coldness he wore like armor. Tried topicture him singing off-key while chopping vegetables, smiling at farmers market vendors, creating food with love instead of managing restaurants with ruthlessness.
The grief must have been crushing to transform someone so completely.
“That’s incredibly sad,” I said finally.
“It is,” Mrs. Pearson agreed.
She left, and I sat there staring at my coffee, trying to reconcile the cold, controlling man I knew with the warm, singing chef I’d just learned about.
My mind drifted back to that day outside his building, when the loan shark had called with his threats and deadlines. I’d stepped outside to take it because I couldn’t risk anyone overhearing. Then I’d turned around and there he was, watching me with those sharp eyes that missed nothing. The panic that shot through me in that moment had been overwhelming. If Hector found out I had dangerous men hunting me, men who knew where I worked and when, he’d fire me without hesitation. He’d see me as a liability, a threat to Lily’s safety, and I’d lose the one source of income keeping me afloat. So I’d lashed out, gotten defensive and angry, thrown up walls before he could see past them to the truth underneath. Better to seem rude than desperate. Better to push him away than risk him getting close enough to realize how completely I was drowning.
The memory made my stomach tight even now, sitting in his kitchen drinking his coffee while discussing the man he used to be. Because somewhere under all that ice, maybe warmth still existed.
But it didn’t matter what kind of person Hector Valdez had been before grief transformed him, or what kind of person he might still be beneath all those walls. In a few weeks, the loan sharks would come collecting their first payment, and when I couldn’t deliver, this job would be the least of what I’d lose.
CHAPTER 9
Hector
The penthouse wasquiet when I returned. Mrs. Pearson met me in the entryway before I’d even set down my bag, her expression carrying something I couldn’t quite read.
