Eat something real tonight. The rest can wait until morning.
No signature.
It is somehow worse that way.
Worse because it feels less performative. Worse because it sounds like something a person says, not a billionaire trying to look noble in case someone repeats the story later. You sit on the edge of the bed holding the note for a long time before finally opening the soup.
It tastes like pepper, garlic, and the beginning of tears.
The next morning, someone is waiting for you outside the hotel.
Not Alejandro.
A man in a wrinkled leather jacket with a coffee cup and a police detective’s posture. He doesn’t block your path, but he is clearly there for you. His face is weathered, his hair mostly gray, his expression cautious rather than aggressive.
“Camila Reyes?” he asks.
Your body locks.
“Yes.”
He holds up a badge. “Detective Martin Shaw. Don’t worry. You’re not in trouble. Mr. Ibarra asked if we could do a quiet welfare check and explain your options if you want to report prior domestic violence.”
Your first reaction is betrayal.
Of course it is.
You step back. “I didn’t ask him to call the police.”
Martin nods. “I know. That’s why I’m standing on the sidewalk and not in your room. You can walk away right now.”
You believe him.
Which is almost irritating.
You glance toward the parking lot where the company sedan is idling to take you to work. The driver looks politely uninterested. The city is waking up around you, buses groaning past, a food cart setting up near the corner, office workers moving through morning like nothing in the world is ever on fire.
“What did he tell you?” you ask.
“That you said your stepfather broke your ribs and your mother stayed silent.”
Your jaw clenches.
“That was months ago.”
“Abuse doesn’t expire because the calendar moved.”
There’s no softness in the way he says it. No pity either. Just fact.
You hate that the fact feels like a hand on your shoulder.
Martin takes a sip of coffee. “Look. I’m not here to push charges down your throat. But if that man comes near your job, your hotel, or you decide you want a record started, you call. If you want a protective order later, easier with documentation now.”
You take the card he offers and slip it into your pocket.
“Thanks,” you mutter.
He gives a small nod. “One more thing. Guys like him don’t like when a woman leaves the map they keep for her. Be careful this week.”
As he walks away, you understand suddenly that whatever Alejandro did yesterday did not end when he left the warehouse at dawn.
It began there.
And you still have no idea whether that should comfort you or scare you.
By noon, half the warehouse is buzzing.
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