Page 1

Chapter 1

Laia walks out of her boss's office and moves down the hallway, glancing through the enormous glass panels on her left. The upper floor of Vidal Manufacturing is a long corridor with offices on one side and, on the other, a continuous glass wall that runs from waist height to the ceiling, offering an almost complete view of the factory floor below.

At the far left are the fabric rolls, and from there the material moves to the cutting area, where the longest table in the factory stands. Toni and Ana are there, layering fabric until they've built up a stack nearly four inches thick. A little farther along is the sewing area, twelve rows of workstations and the constant hum of machine motors and needles. On the right, separated from the rest by a partition, is the knitwear line, and just beyond that, the pressing section, the hottest spot in the whole building.

Then there's quality control, four workers checking every garment against the technical spec sheet, and finally the warehouse, with its shelving racks, two forklifts, and the loading dock shutters rolled up. More than a hundred workers producing high-end woven garments: dress shirts, blazers, trousers, dresses, pocket squares.

It isn't the job Laia had dreamed of when she had to drop out of her business administration degree after finishing her vocational diploma in accounting and finance, but she can't complain. She gets paid on time every month—which is exactly what she needs—and the work itself isn't overwhelming. She came in for an opening in administration, and when they took her on, the condition was six months on probation under the supervision of Elvira Vidal, the factory owner. She apparently met Elvira's expectations well enough that Elvira has never let her go, and that was five years ago now.

She heads downstairs to the entrance area, which has something resembling a reception desk—a table where the floor supervisor sits, sometimes coming out here from the factory floor to go over orders without the noise getting in the way. On the opposite wall, there are several vending machines that have saved Laia from starving on more than a few days.

"Hey, Irene." Laia hops down the last two steps.

"Heading out?" she asks, just settling into her chair.

"Yeah, I'm going to the bank to run some errands for Mrs. Vidal, and then to the accountant's office."

"Bundle up then—it's pretty cold out this morning."

Laia waves goodbye and pushes through the double glass doors, zipping her jacket all the way up to her chin as she turns left. The factory sits in an industrial park in Mataró, right by the beach. It's one of the things she loves most about her job—leaning over to look out her boss's office window and seeing the sea, sitting in a meeting room and still seeing it, walking out to the parking lot and almost being able to touch it. She only has to cross the train tracks—which run along the far end of the Vidal Manufacturing lot—and she could sit on the rocks and stare at it for hours.

She's almost to her car when she spots them coming around the side of the building. There are four of them and they look like they're in a hurry: two men in suits, an older woman with blond hair, and her.

Laia stops dead in the middle of the parking lot and doesn't even step aside when a car circling for a spot has to swerve around her to avoid running her over. She's tall, wearing a long open coat that moves with her at every step, dark tailored trousers, and a shirt she's paired with a scarf tied like a necktie. Her heels click against the pavement with a confidence Laia has never had, and her chestnut hair is pulled into a loose bun that would be a disaster on anyone else and on her is the perfect finishing touch for an absolutely stunning woman. She is the definition of elegance. She walks a couple of steps behind the others, not looking at them, not talking, radiating a magnetism that makes every worker who's stepped out for a smoke turn their head as she passes.

Heat floods Laia's face all at once, from her neck to her ears, and a hollow opens up in her stomach that forces her to gulp air through her mouth. Her throat goes dry and her fingers start to tingle in a way she can't explain. At twenty-six, she's been in relationships with two women and she knows exactly what it feels like when someone catches her eye, but neither of them ever left her frozen in the middle of a parking lot, staring at a stranger like someone had revoked her right to move. This is nothing like anything she's felt before—it's a jolt that runs through her entire body and leaves her trembling in a way that won't quit.

The group reaches the entrance she just came out of, and one of the men is the one who pulls the door open and holds it until the others pass through, and that's how the woman in the coat disappears from view. She's still standing there, legs shaking, heart slamming against her ribs. She looks up at the windows along the front of the building, and for a moment the terrible idea of going back inside and asking who that woman is crosses her mind. Thankfully, she still has a shred of common sense, and after letting out a slightly hysterical laugh that makes her sound unhinged, she turns toward her car and wonders who they all were.

She gets in quickly, pulling the door shut hard and pressing her outstretched hands flat against the steering wheel. She can't believe it—they're still shaking, and she can still feel her heart in her throat, her chest packed tight like she's swallowed a thousand butterflies.

"God…" she breathes, and starts the engine, but when she reaches for the heat, she decides she doesn't need it—the woman in the long coat has already taken care of warming her up.

She doesn't know who she is or what her name is, or whether she'll ever cross paths with her again, and the thought of that last part worries her far more than the first.

Chapter 2

Claudia Vidal follows her parents and Jordi Comas, the family's lawyer, up the stairs that lead to the floor with the offices. Her hands are buried in her pockets and her stomach is in knots. She can't remember how many years it's been since she last came here, but as they walk down the hallway and she looks through the glass panels toward the factory floor, the hours come back to her—the ones she used to spend in this place as a little girl, tagging along with her mother to the meetings she had with her aunt. She remembers some of the workers from back then, but especially Remei, a woman who must be around thirty, who always pulls a stool up next to her own and hands her a notebook and a pencil so she can draw all the dresses and suits she swears she'll design when she grows up.

"Come in, honey," says Blanca Vidal, her mother, who has stayed by the conference room door, holding it open.

Claudia, who has been staring at the factory floor, turns and steps through the doorway. Her father, Enric Serra, has already settled into one of the nine mismatched chairs around the table. One leg crossed over the other, he smooths his tie as if simply being here is coating him in dust, and she watches him with a faint sense of pity. He married her mother almost forty years ago and has spent those same forty years trying to prove he's worthy of the Vidal name. When Claudia was born, her grandfather—the man who founded this factory and the stores her mother runs in Barcelona—insisted that his granddaughter carry his surname first, and her father swallowed it, because the only thing he ever wanted was to prove the old man hadn't been wrong to let him marry the elder of his two daughters.

Blanca sits down. Claudia stays on her feet, looking this time through the window that faces the parking lot. She doesn't know what they're doing here. Her mother has had almost no personal relationship with her aunt for years now—they see each other occasionally because this is where all the clothing sold in their stores is made—but a couple of days ago Blanca told her they needed to come here for a meeting, and when she asked what it was about, her father cut in and said that if she wanted to keep living off the business, she'd better show up.

"I don't know why we agreed to come to this place," her father suddenly complains. "This room is… it doesn't even have matching chairs, for God's sake. What kind of impression does that give? And on top of it she makes us wait."

"Stop complaining," her mother snaps. "We're the ones who need something here, and since she's doing us a favor, what does it cost us to come? Besides, I want to take a look around the factory while we're at it."

Claudia watches them from behind, but all she can see are the backs of their heads and, across from them, the lawyer, who glances at her and cuts short an almost-smile, because in front of the Vidals nobody laughs unless her father gives the signal.

The door opens and Elvira Vidal walks in, and Claudia suddenly feels the urge to cry, because she realizes she has spent her entire adult life without seeing her aunt and doesn't even have a reason of her own for it. The family cut ties, and that simply included her.

"Good morning," Elvira says, looking first toward the table.

"Hi, Elvira," her sister answers without getting up.

Enric just mutters something, and the lawyer is the only one to stand and shake her aunt's hand. Elvira then turns toward her, and they hold each other's gaze for a second before she walks around the table and comes closer.