The Lies we Keep

Chapter1

-Elena’s POV-

"Petition denied."

The judge keeps her eyes down as she says it, like Maria Gonzalez doesn’t matter.

I’m on my feet before I think. The chair scrapes back, too sharp. “Your Honor, if you’d just take another look at the supplemental evidence—”

"Ms. Navarro." Judge Morrison's voice cuts like a blade. "The decision stands. Next case."

My files slide out of my hands and spill across the table. My fingers won’t cooperate, shaking too much, so I sweep everything into my briefcase without checking, just trying to leave before I break.

Behind me, Maria makes a small, broken sound. I stop breathing for a second. My chest tightens until it feels solid. The prosecutor gathers his files with a satisfied smile, and I know what he sees. Another bleeding-heart immigration lawyer who believes the system gives a damn.

I lean into the courtroom door with more force than I mean to. It scrapes open slowly. The second I’m out, that sour cleaner smell catches in my throat — sharp, fake lemon, heavy with bleach. Not clean. Just loud. My eyes sting. I keep my head down and walk. My heels hit the floor, loud and fast. I keep moving. I pass lawyers who look like they’ve already won, and families gripping folders like something inside might save them.

Three doors ahead. If I can reach the bathroom, I’ll have one minute to stop pretending I’m okay.

I take the last stall and lock it. Curl in and press my forehead to my knees. I count under my breath, trying to breathe. My chest won’t settle. My eyes burn, but nothing comes. The tears are gone. I used them all a long time ago.

The bathroom stall feels like ice. Metal walls hem me in, door every bit as hard, toilet paper holder numbing my fingers on contact. Palms flat to my thighs, I push down to kill the shaking, but my hands stay wild. Outside, heels snap across tile and trail off into nothing. The hand dryer roars to life for a few seconds and cuts off. Then quiet again. Just my breathing and the drip of water from somewhere I cannot see.

My skirt has a coffee stain on the hem from this morning, when I could not spare Starbucks prices but still grabbed the bodega version because going in without caffeine felt worse. The stain is brown and obvious. I tried to rub it out with a wet paper towel in the office bathroom before court; it only spread, blooming across the fabric until it announced exactly what I am. Someone who cannot even keep her clothes clean.

My phone buzzes. Again. Again.

Seven missed calls from Miguel. Three texts that make my muscles lock up.

Elena call me

CALL ME NOW

It's an emergency

Miguel doesn't panic. If he's using all caps, something catastrophic happened.

I dial.

"Elena, thank God." His voice cracks. "ICE showed up during my midterm and pulled me out in front of the entire lecture hall—"

"What happened?" My voice comes out thin.

"They're challenging my DACA status. Error in the original application. I have thirty days, or they're deporting me to Mexico."

The walls close in. I press my hand against cold metal to stay upright. "Thirty days?"

"Twenty-nine now." His breathing sounds wrong, too fast. "I don't even remember Mexico. I was six months old. This is my home—"

"Where are you?"

"Library. Third floor. Everyone stared at me like I was some criminal."

"You're not. You're still my brother. Smart, stubborn, and headed for med school. We’ll find a way."

"With what money?" His voice drops, quiet now. "You're drowning in debt, and Mom can't help, and we need a lawyer with resources, not just—" He stops, but the damage is done.

Not just a struggling nonprofit lawyer who loses.

"I'll figure it out. I promise. Stay there and don't sign anything."

The lie sits heavy on my tongue.

After we hang up, I don’t move. I’m still in the stall, clutching my phone tight. My hand has gone stiff. Maria has two weeks. Miguel has twenty-nine days. I can’t help either of them.

I'm still holding the phone when it buzzes again. Not Miguel this time. David Rivera. Two words that somehow feel heavier than they should. My thumb hovers over the screen. Part of me wants to ignore it, walk out of this bathroom and straight home to my apartment where the electricity might get shut off next week but at least I won't have to face another person who needs something I can't give.

But I open it anyway. I answer messages. Pick up calls. Say yes when no is the smart move. All because I keep thinking the work, the heart, the grind will land right one of these days. The text crawls in word by word, like my phone drags its feet same as me.

Need to see you. Urgent. High-profile client.

Those words hang on the screen while I stare until they blur into something dangerous. Nobody high profile calls Rivera and Associates. We're the lawyers people come to when they've already been turned away everywhere else. We're the last stop, not the first choice.

Another text: He specifically asked for you by name.

No one ever asks for me.

I run cold water over my face and stare at my reflection in the scratched mirror until it sharpens into something I can’t argue with: twenty-eight, tired around the eyes, and still not where I thought I’d be.

Rivera and Associates is a third floor walk up wedged between a corner store and a laundromat, with an elevator that’s been out since March and stairs that make you earn every morning. By the time I reach my desk, David is already there waiting, fifty-eight with kind eyes and a suit that doesn’t quite fit, and he slides a business card across the desktop before I even sit down.

Heavy paper. Embossed letters: Cross Industries. Damien Cross, CEO.

My stomach drops.

Everyone knows that name. Damien Cross. Billionaire. Self-made at eighteen. Forbes estimates eight point two billion. Thirty-five years old and so private that Google shows the same five photos: black suit, ice-blue eyes, sharp features that reveal nothing.

"Why is a billionaire calling us?"

"His people called this morning. Personal matter, very discreet, well compensated." David watches me. "The retainer would keep us running six months."

I turn the card over. The paper feels cold. "What matter?"

"Wouldn't say. Wants to meet in person. Tomorrow, ten a.m., his Midtown office." He pauses. "They requested you specifically."

Red flags everywhere. "Why me?"

"They did research. Know you're good. Know you're hungry." His voice drops. "Know you need the money."

That should offend me. It doesn't.

I google Damien Cross while David pretends not to watch. Same images load—board meetings, charity galas, always alone, always in black, always unreadable. Forbes article: "The Enigma of Damien Cross: Self-Made Billionaire With No Past."

I click through. Journalist spent six months digging, but found nothing before age eighteen. No family. No friends. No history. Like Damien Cross appeared out of nowhere with millions and built an empire from the shadows.

"Elena." David's voice cuts through. "You don't have to do this if it feels wrong."

Miguel's voice echoes. Twenty-nine days. Maria's deportation. My student loans. The electric bill I can't pay.

"Text me the address."

I head out before he can say anything else. Before that voice in my head reminds me that people like Damien Cross don’t call people like me unless they want something no amount of money can cover.

My phone buzzes as I reach the middle of the stairs. No name. Just some number I don’t recognize.

Looking forward to our meeting tomorrow, Ms. Navarro.

– DC

I stop on the landing. People keep moving around me, some brushing past. One shoulder-checks me hard enough that I stumble into the railing.

He has my number. My personal one. I never gave it out.

The screen goes dark in my hand. The air in the stairwell shifts. Cooler. Heavier.

Tomorrow I’ll walk into his office blind. And whatever this is, I know it’ll cost more than I want to give.