MY BILLIONAIRE BOSS IN MEDELLÍN

The bus died. Of course it died. Right now, today, when I could not afford for anything else to die. One cough. A shudder. Then black smoke - so much of it - rolling right through the open windows. The woman next to me started cussing out God and the driver and her ex-husband, all in one breath. Driver stood up. "Everybody off. I don't do miracles, I do routes." My interview was at two. My phone said 1:51. And the hospital bill in my pocket felt like it weighed ten kilos. 1:51. I ran. My Medellín is stairs and laundry lines and reggaeton from someone's kitchen. El Poblado is... not that. Gates so tall you can't see where they end. Cameras hidden in flowers. Sidewalks so clean my cheap heels sounded loud. Wrong. I sounded wrong here. A sprinkler was watering a lawn that didn't even need it. The blister on my left heel popped somewhere around the second block. Then the black car. It came around the corner too fast, hit the gutter, and threw the whole gutter at me. Dirty water, up my legs. My blouse. Everything. It didn't even slow down. Tinted windows. Of course. I just stood there, dripping. My heart going crazy. And I thought - yeah, this is exactly the kind of man who lives here. And I'm about to beg one of them for a job. My phone buzzed. Mamá. I shouldn't answer when I'm running. I answered anyway. "Don't run," she said. She sounded tired. That cough underneath it. The one she says is allergies. "If you fall we pay for two hospitals, not one." "I'm not running," I said, out of breath. Totally running. "You breathe like you're stealing something." She laughed, then coughed. That real cough. The one that keeps us both up at night. "Sofia. If they don't want you, they don't deserve you, mija." "They have to want me. Deserve has nothing to do with it. We need the money." "Pride is not dinner. Eat after, okay?" The signal cut. I shoved the phone back next to the bill and ran the last block with her cough still in my ear. The house wasn't a house. It was glass and white stone and sharp edges. Three stories of "we have more money than you." No flowers. No shoes by the door. Nothing that said someone actually lived there. Just money trying to look scary. I looked like a stain on it. I fixed my blouse - the one I ironed three times - and pressed the intercom before I could chicken out. "Name." Not a question. Like he already knew I wasn't supposed to be there. "Sofia Ramirez. Interview. Two o'clock." Long pause. Long enough that I was sure he'd hung up. Then buzz. Gate opened. Guy inside, dark shirt, earpiece. He looked at my shoes, my wet skirt, the little mend near my seam. Didn't even try to hide it. "Bag. Table. Arms out." "It's a job interview." "House got robbed last year by a guy with an appointment too." He wasn't mean, just bored. Like he'd done this 100 times. He waved the wand, opened my bag, stopped at the folded bill. "Hospital?" "Yes." "Don't leave paper on his desk. He hates paper that isn't his. Marta will take you. Don't touch nothing. Bathroom? Hold it." Great. The front door opened. Woman in black dress, no wrinkle on it. Face like she never smiled, not even as a kid. "You're wet," she said. "The street was rude," I said. She didn't laugh. "Follow me. Don't talk unless he talks to you. If he doesn't talk to you, you were never here." Inside - silence that costs money. Marble floors. I could see my reflection. Cheap, wet, obvious. No photos anywhere. No jacket over a chair. Just art that looked like someone angry with colors. Air smelled like nothing. At home it always smells like rice and cough syrup. Here it smelled like nothing. Then his voice. From down the hall. "I don't pay you to be almost right. Almost right is how companies die and people keep their jobs. Ten minutes, correct numbers, or your resignation. I don't negotiate with incompetence." Silence on the other side trying to survive. "Then be unemployed." Click. Call over. My stomach just dropped. Marta - Ice Woman - didn't even blink. She stopped at an office door. Office as big as our whole apartment. "Stand there. Don't fill the air." She left. Daniel Herrera behind a black desk. Younger than his voice. Maybe thirty. Dark hair, hard jaw, white shirt sleeves rolled up. Forearms that go to the gym. Handsome like a locked gate is handsome - you can look, but you bleed if you climb it. He didn't look up. Typing. Like I wasn't there. One minute. Two. Clock ticking loud. Three. My blister was screaming. Four. I wanted to say something, but I was pretty sure I'd die if I did. Five. He looked up. Light eyes. Gray-blue. Not warm. Not even cold, just... empty. They went down - shoes, wet hem, blouse, face - then back to the shoes. Like the shoes told him everything. "You're ten minutes late. I don't hire late people." Heat hit my throat. That old thing where I want to say sorry until I disappear. Behind him, the city in the glass windows. Rich and doesn't care. In my pocket, the bill. I ran three blocks. A car baptized me in gutter water. Some guy searched my bag like I'm a thief. I'm not leaving in thirty seconds. I lifted my chin. Like Mamá does when the landlord yells. ---