Inside are hotel information, a meal card, a transit voucher, a list of domestic violence resources, and a temporary internal memo marked CONFIDENTIAL EMERGENCY EMPLOYEE SUPPORT. Your name is printed cleanly across the top as if you are someone worth organizing care around.
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t want people knowing,” you say.
“They won’t,” Deborah replies. “Only those who must.”
You nod once, because it is safer than speaking.
Alejandro stands. “Rogelio has been told you’re assisting with a temporary operations audit this afternoon. No one on the floor will question where you are. Deborah will walk you through the paperwork. A driver can take you to the hotel after shift.”
“I don’t need a driver.”
“You shouldn’t be carrying everything you own on public transit if someone may be looking for you,” he says.
You freeze.
He noticed that.
Not the backpack itself. The implication.
You force yourself to ask. “You think my stepfather would come here?”
Alejandro’s expression hardens in a way that changes him. Until now he has looked controlled, measured, a man trained by money and meetings to remain unruffled. But there, just for a second, something darker flickers under the composure.
“I think men who hurt women rarely enjoy losing access to them,” he says.
The room is silent.
Then Deborah gently slides a pen toward you. “Camila, none of this obligates you beyond receiving the support. But we do need your signature to authorize the lodging.”
You stare at the pen.
Your hand trembles once before you hide it in your lap.
You sign.
The hotel room feels obscene.
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