Episode Eight – A Name Like a Secret
714 Words
Lucía wasn’t sure what she expected when she walked into the staff break room the next morning. Definitely not the quiet hush that fell over the kitchen, or Elena giving her a look that felt a little too much like concern mixed with curiosity.
“Someone called for you,” Elena said, stirring a pot of mole sauce. “Said their name was Valentina.”
Lucía dropped the spoon in her hand.
The clatter echoed.
“She didn’t leave a message,” Elena added carefully. “Just said to tell you she hopes your morning is better than your night.”
Lucía’s throat tightened. She muttered something vague, something about wrong numbers, and ducked out of the kitchen before anyone could press her.
She splashed cold water on her face in the tiny employee bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror.
This was spiraling. Fast.
The worst part? A part of her didn’t want it to stop.
That night on the steps haunted her. Valentina’s voice, her confession—soft, devastating. The way she’d said Lucía’s name like it meant something. Like it mattered.
But Valentina Moretti didn’t live in Lucía’s world.
And Lucía couldn’t live in hers.
Could she?
---
Later that week, the restaurant was booked for a private event.
An engagement party.
Lucía helped Elena set out the appetizers, the overhead lights dimmed to something cozy and romantic. String lights had been added along the walls, cheap but effective. Everything smelled like slow-cooked spices and sugared fruit.
She was just arranging cocktail napkins when she heard a voice she didn’t recognize say:
“She’s here.”
Lucía froze.
A figure walked through the front doors. Not Valentina. A man—tall, suited, sunglasses indoors like he owned the night.
Then came Valentina.
Lucía’s heart stuttered.
She looked impossibly radiant. No suit today—just a sleek black dress that hinted at strength more than softness, her dark hair falling in loose waves. She looked like danger in heels.
Lucía spun toward the back hallway, but it was too late.
“Lucía,” Valentina called.
Everything in her told her to keep walking.
But she stopped.
Turned.
Valentina stood just inside the restaurant, hands loose at her sides, like she was trying not to spook her.
“Don’t worry,” Valentina said, softer now. “I’m just here as a guest. My cousin’s fiancée likes the food.”
Lucía stared.
Of course she had cousins who got engaged in the restaurants of people they stalked.
“Right,” Lucía said, voice dry.
Valentina smiled, and for a second it was almost—nervous?
“You’re still mad.”
“I’m still processing.”
Valentina nodded. “Can I ask you something?”
Lucía didn’t answer. Not exactly.
Valentina took it as a yes.
“What would it take,” she asked, “for you to believe I’m not playing a game?”
Lucía swallowed. “Time. Proof.”
“And if I gave you both?”
“Then maybe I’d stop flinching every time I see your car.”
They stood in silence.
Lucía’s breath caught as Valentina stepped closer—not touching, not crowding, just close enough that she could smell the faint perfume clinging to her skin.
“Do you want me to stop coming?”
Lucía’s lips parted.
Her mind screamed yes.
But her chest...
Her chest said something else entirely.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
Valentina nodded like that answer was enough.
“I’ll leave you to work.”
Lucía blinked.
Just like that?
Valentina walked toward the event space.
And Lucía stood there, heart pounding, watching her go.
---
The next day, Lucía got a package.
No flowers this time.
Just a book.
An old, worn volume of Spanish poetry.
Inside the cover, in tiny cursive, was a note:
“This one made me think of you. Page 47.”
—V.
Lucía opened it.
The poem was underlined. Neruda. Something about burning stars and trembling hands and the word fuego written over and over.
She pressed the book to her chest.
Her warning still beat lik
e a drum in her ribcage.
But so did something else.
Hope.
Want.
A hunger with a name she was finally willing to say out loud.
Valentina.
- Writer
