Unspoken longing

Monterrey, Mexico — 7:42 a.m. The glass fortress of Herrera & Sons towered against the early morning sky, a shimmering monolith of ambition and ruthlessness. Its polished windows reflected the first rays of the Mexican sun, as if daring the day to challenge the steel resolve within. Inside, the lobby resembled the altar of a corporate god—silent, sleek, and sacred. Every corner screamed discipline. Precision. Power. And right in the middle of that cold perfection, chaos entered. Valeria Mendoza burst through the revolving doors, one arm juggling her oversized tote bag, the other clutching a rapidly leaking caramel macchiato like it held the meaning of life. Her ponytail swung like a whip behind her, matching the rhythm of her heels as they cracked sharply against the marble floor—every step echoing like a declaration of war. "¡Maldita sea!" she hissed under her breath as a splash of coffee decorated the front of her cream blouse in a brown, traitorous bloom. She fumbled with a napkin—if one could call the disintegrating tissue that had come with her drink a napkin—and dabbed at the spreading stain, cursing every decision that had led to this exact moment, starting with pressing 'snooze' one too many times. The young receptionist at the front desk peeked up from behind her monitor, eyes wide. "Señorita Mendoza, are you—?" "Perfect," Valeria cut in with a strained smile, waving her dripping cup in mock triumph. "Just living my best frappuccino fantasy." Without waiting for sympathy or further questions, she stalked past the front desk and made a beeline toward the elevators. Her ID badge bounced against her lanyard, smudged with caramel. Somewhere deep inside her bag, her phone buzzed—probably another passive-aggressive reminder from her team lead about punctuality. Today was not a day for mistakes. Today, she had one job: deliver the updated design boards for the Santiago proposal to him—Alejandro Herrera, CEO, tyrant-in-chief, and walking HR violation of handsomeness—before the morning meeting at eight sharp. If she got there in time, she might escape with only a glacial glare instead of a verbal decapitation. She jabbed at the elevator button like it had personally insulted her. “One day,” she muttered, glaring at the stubbornly closed doors, “I’m going to pour hot coffee on Alejandro Herrera’s perfect smug face and call it modern art.” A deep voice, amused and far too familiar, responded behind her. “Noted.” Valeria’s soul left her body. She turned—very, very slowly—and came face to face with the man himself. Alejandro Herrera. Six-foot-something of tailored menace. His charcoal suit was criminally well-fitted, his white shirt so crisp it could double as armor. Tousled dark hair, sculpted jawline, and eyes the exact color of a winter storm: cold, calculating, and very aware of her existence at this humiliating moment. "Señor Herrera," she said with a smile so fake it deserved an Oscar. "Didn’t see you there. Probably because I was busy... going blind from caffeine trauma." His eyes flicked to the growing stain on her blouse. His lips twitched—not quite a smile, but dangerously close. That almost-smile that meant he was either amused or preparing to fire someone. “Interesting choice of attire for a staff meeting,” he said, voice velvety and cruelly calm. Valeria bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. She would not let him see her break. Not again. “I’ll change before the meeting,” she replied, voice sugary with a hint of steel. “The coffee fought back.” He stepped into the elevator and casually pressed the button for the top floor without looking at her. “Make sure you change your attitude, too.” She followed him in, jaw clenched so tightly it was a miracle her molars didn’t shatter. The doors slid shut with a quiet hiss, locking her into a very small space with a very large problem. “Do I have a choice?” she muttered. “Not today,” he said without missing a beat. 8:00 a.m. — Conference Room, Top Floor The room smelled like fresh ink, stress, and eucalyptus-scented air freshener. Valeria set the design boards on the table, her fingers trembling slightly as she aligned each one to perfection. Breathe, she told herself. Breathe like your job depends on it—because it probably does. She could feel his presence even before he entered. Alejandro walked in, the air shifting around him like he commanded gravity itself. His expression was unreadable, carved from the same cold marble as the boardroom table. But something in his eyes made her pause—there was a flicker of something. Not anger. Not boredom. Something like calculation. "Change of plans," he said, his tone clipped. Valeria straightened, alert. "Did I miss something?" "I need you to come with me," he said, already turning toward the door. "Now. No questions." "Excuse me?" she blinked. “There’s a brunch meeting. Important investors. They’re old-school. They believe in image. Stability. Family values.” Her brows shot up. “And you want me to… what? Charm them with my stained blouse?” Alejandro turned around, and for the first time that morning, his composure cracked—just slightly. He walked toward her, deliberate, precise, like every step was a silent negotiation. When he stopped just a foot away, she caught a whiff of his cologne—subtle but intoxicating. She hated that she noticed. "I want you to be my fiancée." The words hit her like a slap. Valeria’s mouth fell open. “I’m sorry,” she said, eyes wide. “Did I just fall into a bad telenovela subplot?” He didn’t blink. “It’s temporary. Just for the duration of the investor tour. You'll be compensated.” "Compensated?" she echoed, nearly laughing. "You want to pay me to be your fake fiancée?" “Yes.” Her heart thudded. “That’s... wildly unethical.” “It’s mutually beneficial.” “For you maybe,” she snapped. “I get coffee stains and emotional trauma. You get a trophy girlfriend to parade around in front of men who probably still think women belong in the kitchen.” “Triple your current salary,” he said smoothly. Silence. The words hung between them like a grenade with the pin pulled. Valeria’s stomach twisted. Her first instinct was to throw the offer back in his too-perfect face. But then reality sank its claws into her ribs. Triple. Salary. Her mother’s unpaid treatments. The overdue rent. The maxed-out credit cards. Every single sacrifice she’d made, every late night, every skipped meal. She wasn’t drowning. She was already underwater. Alejandro stepped closer, voice lower now, almost gentle. Almost. “You need the money. I need the image. We don’t have to like each other. Just pretend.” Pretend. Valeria stared at him. He wasn’t even trying to be charming. Just efficient. As always. And yet, some twisted, foolish part of her brain whispered, What if...? What if she said yes? What if she let herself be the woman Alejandro Herrera wanted? Even if it was all a lie. Even if he didn’t see her—really see her. Even if she would only ever be a temporary solution to his permanent image problem. “Fine,” she snapped, chin tilted defiantly. “But if you ever call me ‘darling’ in public, I’m suing you for emotional damage.” A flicker of something passed over his face—humor? Amusement? Admiration? “I’ll take my chances,” he said. And just like that, Valeria Mendoza—broke, bitter, and one spill away from a nervous breakdown—became the fake fiancée of Monterrey’s most heartless billionaire. That was the deal. Clean. Simple. No feelings. No complications. But neither of them noticed the one document she’d already signed. The one nestled innocently inside the Santiago file from last week. The one with her name and his signature. Not a contract. A marriage license. The storm they were walking into? It would be messy, emotional... and very, very real.