Valeria's POV

I know these streets better than I know myself.

Every cracked sidewalk, every peeling wall covered in graffiti, and every pair of eyes that flicker too long in my direction—I've learned to read them all. La Cumbre isn't the kind of place you leave; it's the kind of place that leaves its mark on you. And me? I'm just another scar in its long history of forgotten souls.

I tug my hoodie over my head, shielding my face from the midday sun and the occasional glance that lingers too long. There's nothing glamorous about my life—just another day, another hustle. The old truck rattles past me, its tires splashing through puddles from last night's rain, and I sidestep out of instinct. You don't make it this far by standing still.

A few blocks down, I see Manny leaning against the rusted fence of the neighborhood store, smoking the last of his cigarette like it's a lifeline. He gives me that lazy smirk, the kind that means trouble.

"Val," he calls, flicking the cigarette away. "You been ghostin' me?"

I keep walking, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. "No money, no talk, Manny. You know the drill."

He laughs, but I hear the edge in it. "Always the tough girl, huh?"

Tough. Right. If only they knew.

I round the corner into an alley, the familiar stench of stale beer and desperation filling my lungs. This place swallows you whole if you let it, but I'm not planning on letting it. Not today. My eyes land on the door I'm looking for—barely hanging on its hinges, a flickering neon sign above it.

Inside, it's the same as always. Dim lighting, low murmurs of voices speaking too fast and too quiet, and the hum of something dangerous lurking beneath it all. I blend in, moving toward the back like I belong here. Because I do.

I move through the dimly lit room, the thump of bass from the broken speaker in the corner vibrating through the cracked tile floor. A few familiar faces glance my way—some nod in acknowledgment, others keep their distance. They know better than to mess with me. Or at least, that's what I like to think.

I reach the back of the room where a small round table sits under the weak glow of a flickering lightbulb. Carlos is there, leaning back in his chair with the kind of lazy confidence that comes from knowing he owns this place, this neighborhood, and half the people in it. His sharp eyes land on me, and a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Next to him, Ramón, his right-hand man, watches me like he's already thinking of ways to get under my skin.

I drop into the chair across from them, sliding a thick envelope across the table.

"Count it," I say, keeping my voice steady. I know it's all there, but trust isn't exactly something that flows freely in these circles.

Carlos picks up the envelope, weighing it in his hand before tossing it to Ramón, who tears it open and starts counting. I watch as the bills slide through his fingers, crisp and clean—just like they wanted. When Ramón nods, Carlos leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

"Not bad, Valeria," he says, tapping a finger against the table. "You're efficient. I like that."

I don't smile. Compliments mean nothing here. "I want more," I say, meeting his gaze head-on. "I can handle bigger jobs. I'm not just some errand girl anymore."

Ramón lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Listen to her, Carlos. She Thinks she's ready for the big leagues."

Carlos’s smirk fades into something colder, more calculating. "You're good at what you do, Val, but knowing your place is part of the job. You run the streets, move the product, and keep your mouth shut. That's your place."

I clench my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm. "I've done everything you asked. I brought in more cash than half the guys working for you. I deserve a shot at something bigger."

Carlos leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Deserve?" he repeats, like the word tastes foreign on his tongue. "You don't deserve anything, chica. You take what you're given and be grateful. That's how it works."

I grit my teeth, swallowing the frustration burning in my chest. "I can handle more," I insist.

Ramón leans in, smirking. "Maybe one day, but not today. Know your place, Castillo."

I stare at him for a long moment, letting their words sink in. I want to fight, to push back, but I know how this works. I stand up, slipping my hands into my pockets. "Fine," I say, forcing the bitterness down. "Let me know when you're ready to stop wasting my time."

I turn and walk away before they can respond, my heart pounding in my chest. I know my place, alright. But one day, they're going to regret underestimating me.

I slam the door behind me and toss my backpack onto the rickety chair in the corner, ignoring the loud creak that follows. The place smells damp, and the steady drip of water leaking from the ceiling into an old pot in the middle of the room reminds me of just how far I haven't come.

I stare at the cracked walls, the peeling paint, the pile of unpaid bills shoved under a bottle of cheap whiskey on the table. "Damn it," I mutter under my breath, running a hand through my hair.

I do all the work, run their dirty errands, and for what? I'm still stuck in this dump, still scraping by, still nowhere in life. I can hustle all I want, but I'll never make it out of here.

A sudden knock at the door interrupts my downward spiral. I frown, grabbing the rusty handle and pulling it open just enough to peek outside.

"César?" I say, surprised.

The little boy stands in the doorway, his thin frame soaked from the rain pouring down outside. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, and his big brown eyes look up at me, hopeful and tired.

"Why the hell are you out in this rain, kid?" I ask, pulling him inside before he catches his death. I grab a ragged towel from the chair and drape it over his shivering shoulders.

He shrugs, rubbing his nose on the sleeve of his worn-out hoodie. "I got hungry," he says, his voice small but honest. "Thought maybe you had some extra food."

My chest tightens, and I sigh, ruffling his wet hair. "You should've gone to the shelter."

He shrugs again, eyes darting to the side. "They ran outta food."

Of course, they did.

I crouch down to his level, trying to give him a reassuring smile. "Well, lucky for you, I've got a little," I say, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. "Not much, but enough to share."

César's face lights up, and he follows me eagerly, kicking off his damp sneakers by the door. I pull out a can of beans and an old pack of instant noodles from the cupboard, setting them on the stove.

"You're a lifesaver, Val," he says, flopping onto my worn-out couch, his small legs dangling over the edge.

I glance at him and shake my head, stirring the noodles in the pot. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it, kid."

But deep down, I know I'll never turn him away.

Emilia's POV

Soft light spills over curves and angles, highlighting bodies in ways that feel more like poetry than photography. The click of my camera fills the air, punctuated by the occasional murmur of approval from me as I capture each pose, each fleeting moment of vulnerability. Nude women stand against silk-draped backdrops, their bodies adorned with nothing but shadow and light.

"Beautiful," I whisper, lowering the camera to examine the shot on the screen. "Absolutely stunning."

"Of course it is," Dani, one of my assistants, says with a dreamy sigh. "You always make them look like art."

Dani stands close—too close—tucking a strand of her auburn hair behind her ear as her eyes linger on me, not the photographs. Across the room, Claire adjusts the lighting, her sharp blue eyes taking in the scene with a detached sort of curiosity.

"I swear, Emilia, you could turn a pile of garbage into high art," Claire quips with a teasing grin.

I chuckle, placing the camera on the sleek, custom-made stand beside me. "Talent, darling. You either have it, or you don't."

As the shoot wraps up, the models slip into silk robes, their laughter filling the studio with an air of ease. I stretch, feeling the slight ache in my shoulders from hours behind the lens, when I suddenly feel a pair of lips press lightly against my shoulder.

"Perfect work, as always," Claire says with a wink before leaning in to peck my cheek. Before I can react, Dani follows suit, her lips lingering just a second too long.

I tilt my head, studying her with that same mix of amusement and gentle detachment I've perfected over the years. "Dani," I murmur, my fingers grazing under her chin briefly before I step back. "You know the rules, sweetheart. We can have fun, but I belong to no one."

Dani's playful pout is immediate, masking whatever disappointment might be there. "A girl can dream," she says, twirling a strand of my hair around her finger.

I smile, indulgent and knowing. I adore their attention, the way they orbit around me like I'm the sun. It's easy. Effortless. A game I've learned to play well.

A soft chime pulls me from the moment—my phone, sitting beside a glass of imported champagne on the mahogany table. I glance at the screen. Father. Again.

I sigh, downing a sip of the bubbly drink before tossing the phone into my oversized designer bag. Later. He can wait.

"I'd love to stay and bask in all this adoration," I say, slipping into my designer coat, "but I'm late for this ridiculous party I can't escape."

Claire smirks. "Another evening of schmoozing with the elite?"

"Unfortunately," I reply, grabbing my keys from the table. "Champagne and empty conversation—my two favorite things."

Dani giggles, and Claire just shakes her head as I saunter toward the exit. Outside, my sleek black bugatti gleams under the dim streetlights, the rain from earlier leaving streaks along the hood. I slide into the driver's seat, exhaling as I grip the wheel.

Sometimes, I wonder if this life is really mine—or just another photograph, perfectly composed but missing something real.

The city lights blur past as I speed down the slick roads, the gentle hum of the engine soothing in a way nothing else ever is. The party can wait. Everything can wait. I let my fingers drum against the steering wheel, watching the glow of my dashboard cast soft shadows against my hands.

I take a sharp turn onto a quieter street, far from the polished avenues of the rich and famous. The distant thump of music fades, replaced by the rhythmic tapping of rain against the windshield.

Then I see them.

Two black SUVs in my rearview mirror.

At first, I don't think much of it. It's a city—cars come and go. But when they switch lanes in perfect sync with me, a sliver of unease creeps up my spine. I frown, slowing slightly, and the SUVs slow too.

I tighten my grip on the wheel.

"Relax, Emilia," I mutter under my breath, glancing at my reflection in the mirror. "You're being paranoid."

But when I hit the next intersection and the SUVs suddenly swerve—one cutting in front of me, the other blocking the rear—my stomach drops.

"Shit."

Before I can react, doors fly open, and figures in dark clothing swarm toward my car. Panic floods my veins as I slam my foot on the gas, tires screeching against the wet asphalt, but it's too late. A van appears from nowhere, cutting off my escape route, and I barely have time to register the masked figure smashing my window before rough hands drag me out.

I scream, thrashing wildly, but they're stronger—too many, too fast. My back hits the cold, wet pavement before they haul me up, shoving me against the van. My head spins, rain soaking through my coat, mixing with the harsh scent of gasoline and something metallic.

"Shut up and don't fight," one of them growls, his voice low and deadly against my ear.

I struggle harder, adrenaline surging through me, but something sharp presses against my ribs—a knife? A gun? I don't know, but it's enough to make me freeze. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps.

"Get her in," another voice commands, and I'm shoved forward, the van's door sliding open. My heels scrape against the floor, and I lurch inside, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

The last thing I see before the doors slam shut is the empty street, the slick pavement reflecting the streetlights like shattered glass.

I'm trapped.

The van speeds off into the night, and I have no idea where they're taking me.