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"Maybe. God, I don't know—can we talk about something else?" she asks, uncomfortable.

Nadia nods and changes the subject, but from that point on, the idea lodges itself in Claudia's mind like an obsession.

Chapter 16

"I'd tell you you get used to it over time, but that's not true—I've been here three years and it's just as suffocating every single day," says Daniel, one of the guys who works in the pressing section, when he sees Claudia stretching her collar and fanning herself with her hand.

It's her second day here and she's not sure she can last two weeks. The heat seeps into her body, turns to water, and her clothes stick to her skin as if it's the height of summer in Barcelona—which isn't far off, since it's already early June and the temperature keeps climbing. The back of her neck is damp even though she's pulled her hair up into a high ponytail, her shirt is glued to her spine, and her feet are cooking inside her sneakers. She can't remember the last time she felt this uncomfortable—not counting yesterday.

"Great, that's really encouraging, thanks," she jokes, and keeps fanning herself.

Daniel lets out a laugh and goes back to what he was doing, which is the same thing she's doing: pick up a finished garment, lay it on the surface, lower the press head, wait, lift it, flip the garment, and repeat. Each piece takes under a minute to finish, so the work is mind-numbingly boring and repetitive, and if she adds the fact that the steam burns her fingers every time she gets too close because she hasn't figured out the right technique, it's without a doubt worse than when she was in packaging.

She drags the back of her hand across her forehead and thinks about going upstairs to the offices and begging Laia to move her to a different section, but then she remembers the conversation with Nadia and, despite the heat, a chill runs the full length of her body, making her shudder. That memory comes back too often lately and she refuses to dwell on it, so every time it surfaces she pushes it away by reaching for something else in her head—and today, the only thoughts she has are a pile of questions that make her realize just how lost she is in her own life. What is she doing here? Why is she putting up with this? What does she expect to get out of it? Because it's definitely not to please her parents, and she doesn't even care about getting the credit card back—all she wants is to find that switch so many people talk about, the one that suddenly clicks on in your mind and shows you the right path after years of feeling lost. But Claudia can't find anything. The only things that come to her are arguments with her mother, and she's had plenty of those.

The press head rises and she picks up the blazer that's been spread out on the surface, sets it on the rack, and when she reaches for the next one, her hand freezes halfway because she's suddenly transported to a family lunch at her parents' house—and it's so vivid she can practically see the dining room with its long table, cream-upholstered chairs, and a chandelier that has always struck her as grotesquely oversized and tacky.

She didn't know exactly how long ago this was, but she had gone to lunch with them reluctantly, and her mother was serving the meat when she glanced at her sideways.

"Your father and I have been talking, and we've come to the conclusion that it's time for you to start spending time with us at the office so you can properly learn how the management side works."

Claudia had been reaching for her fork, but her hand froze in midair.

"You know I don't want that. I don't want to run the company."

"I'm not asking you." Blanca sat down. "I'm talking to you like an adult and I expect you to respond like one."

"Then my answer is no," she snapped, feeling her stomach clench.

"The answer is yes," her father cut in, but went quiet when Blanca shot him a withering look.

"You've spent six years doing that website thing, and everyone here knows it not only has no future, it's a ridiculous job that anyone could do. What I keep asking myself is how much longer you plan to dodge your responsibilities. We've been very lenient with you, but I think that's enough—it's time to put that degree to use, the one that's been collecting dust in the office."

"A degree I didn't choose."

Blanca clenched her jaw and set her fork down with a sharp crack.

"If you're not capable of choosing a profession with a future, it's our responsibility to choose one for you. Or do you plan to coast through life forever? The money on that card you love using so much exists because we work hard to keep this company afloat and leave you something. You're privileged, Claudia. You have everything anyone in your position could want, and all you do is throw it back in our faces."

"Then take it away." It came out before she could stop it, and she bit her tongue before she could say anything more, because she knew the money—even though she complained that they held it over her—was the leash her parents kept on her.

"Don't be ridiculous. What I want is for you to grow up and take responsibility."

Claudia stared at her mother with her jaw so tight her teeth ground together. She pressed her fists against her thighs under the table and let her gaze drift past the tablecloth.

"Fine, go wherever it is you go and keep showing me this kind of disrespect." She heard her mother in the background—Blanca kept talking—but the words felt like they were coming through a wall: she could hear them and still couldn't string them together, because her mind had completely disconnected from the moment, until a hard slam on the table rattled the silverware and jolted her back.

"Your mother is talking to you!" her father exploded. "Have the decency to at least pretend you're listening."

A high-pitched ring bursts through Claudia's ears, as though both had been blocked and the sound has hit all at once. She looked at her father with her pulse hammering and her stomach in a knot, and then she stood up and walked out without a word.

And she's in that same state of disconnection right now, her hands held slightly away from her body as she opens and closes them slowly, her gaze lost in the steam rising from the press head. She can't hear the noise from the rest of the floor, or her coworkers' voices, or the eerie hiss of the other irons, because her mind is still sitting at that dining room table in her parents' house, the sound of her mother's voice issuing orders to run her life lodged like a splinter in her brain—and in one of those moments when her hands move with the involuntary gestures she makes when she zones out, her left forearm grazes the surface of the iron.

The sharp pain yanks her out of her thoughts in an instant and a cry tears out of her at the same moment she stumbles back from the iron, her arm pulled tight against her body and the skin of her forearm burning as if it's being scorched from the inside. She looks at it, a cold sweat breaking across her forehead, and sees a reddish stripe about four inches long on the inner side of her arm—the area is flushed pink and the edge is already swelling.

"Irene!" Daniel calls out when he sees the section supervisor passing in front of the area at that exact moment.

The woman turns and jogs over when she sees two workers looking at Claudia's arm.