Velvet Chains

Madrid’s morning light always lied. It spilled through the thin curtains of our apartment like gold poured over dust, softening the peeling paint and the cracks in the wall. But the warmth never reached the numbers on the kitchen table. Electricity. Water. Rent. Medical. Four envelopes, each stamped in red. I traced the letters with a shaking finger and whispered a number that didn’t exist. The kettle hissed behind me; the sound reminded me of my mother’s cough in the next room. “Mamá, did you take your pills?” Her answer was a tired hum, muffled beneath the blankets. I smiled even though she couldn’t see it. “Good. I’ll be back before lunch.” I didn’t tell her the truth: that I had no shifts today, no paycheck coming. The café I worked at had closed suddenly, another casualty of the city’s endless competition. I’d already sold my old camera, pawned my textbooks, even tried tutoring tourists in English. Nothing lasted. My phone buzzed — another reminder from the landlord. “Two days, Calla. I can’t keep giving you extensions.” I wanted to throw the phone across the room but instead pressed my thumb and swallowed the panic like coffee grounds. The twins’ laughter drifted from the bedroom — a sound both beautiful and cruel. They were too young to know what eviction meant. I opened my laptop, its cracked screen flickering like it, too, had given up. “Jobs in Madrid,” I typed. The search results mocked me: hundreds of listings demanding degrees I didn’t have or experience I couldn’t fake. I scrolled past them all, jaw tight, until a short line of text caught my eye: PRIVATE ASSISTANT WANTED — Confidential Firm. High pay. Immediate start. Discretion required. Apply in person. No company name, just an address in the business district — Calle de Serrano. The same street where the towers of glass rose above the city like watchful gods. I checked it twice. Drayke Global Consulting. I’d heard that name before. Everyone had. Rumors said it handled “crisis management” for politicians and celebrities — the kind of help that erased mistakes, not fixed them. Still, the promise of “high pay” flashed in my mind like a heartbeat. “Discretion required.” I could do discretion. I’d been keeping my family’s situation quiet for years. I shut the laptop and stared at my reflection in the dark screen: hair pulled into a messy knot, faded T-shirt, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. I looked like someone who needed saving, not hiring. No one hires pity, I told myself. I showered, borrowed my mother’s last untouched perfume — the one she saved for better days — and slipped into the plain black dress I wore for every interview. It had been ironed so many times the fabric had learned obedience. --- By the time I stepped outside, the streets had turned slick with last night’s rain. Madrid moved around me in its usual rhythm — hurried footsteps, the scent of coffee, the hum of conversation. Everyone looked like they had somewhere to be. Everyone except me. The metro ride was short but loud; two businessmen argued over stocks while a child stared at my hands clutching the strap of my bag. I pretended not to notice. When I surfaced onto Calle de Serrano, the world changed. Here, wealth wasn’t loud — it whispered. The cars gleamed without dust, and even the air smelled expensive. My heels clicked against marble steps until I reached the building from the ad. DRAYKE GLOBAL. Letters of black steel against glass. I hesitated at the entrance, watching my reflection shimmer on the doors. The receptionist inside noticed me and smiled, her expression practiced, almost mechanical. I pushed the door open and stepped into another world — one of silence and scentless air-conditioning. The lobby was all white marble and silver, more art gallery than office. My heartbeat felt out of place here. “Good morning.” The receptionist’s voice was perfectly neutral. “Do you have an appointment?” “I… saw a listing online. For an assistant position.” Her eyes flicked over me, assessing without judgment. “Name?” “Calla Monroe.” “Wait here, Ms. Monroe.” She disappeared through a glass corridor, her heels echoing like a metronome. I tried not to touch anything, afraid I’d smudge the perfection. A wall-sized photograph caught my attention — Madrid at night, lights glittering like broken glass. The signature at the corner read S. Drayke. So he was an artist, too. Or a collector of his own illusions. “Mr. Drayke will see you now.” The receptionist’s return startled me. My throat went dry. He? She led me down a hallway lined with frosted glass doors until we stopped at the end. She knocked once and opened it. The office inside was shadowed and minimalist — black desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. And behind that desk sat a man I recognized from newspaper articles and whispered gossip: Sebastian Drayke. He looked younger than I expected — late twenties, maybe — but the air around him carried weight. His suit was charcoal, his posture precise, his expression unreadable. The light caught the edges of his jaw, sharp enough to draw blood. “Ms. Monroe.” His voice was low, smooth, touched by an English accent softened by years in Spain. “Sit.” I obeyed before realizing I had. He studied me the way one might study a puzzle — not cruelly, but with intent to understand how it worked. His eyes were gray, the color of a storm before it breaks. “You applied for the assistant position,” he said, though it sounded less like a question than a test. “Yes, sir. I—” “Drayke is fine.” “Right. I saw the listing this morning. I have experience in office work, customer service, and—” He lifted a hand. Silence fell. “I don’t hire easily.” The statement hung between us, quiet but absolute. Something in me wanted to flinch, but another part — the part tired of fear — lifted its chin. “Then maybe I’ll surprise you.” The corner of his mouth moved, almost a smile, quickly gone. He tapped a folder on his desk. “Your résumé.” I hadn’t realized I’d given it to the receptionist. He must have read it already. “You’ve been through three jobs in the past year,” he said. “Café, bookstore, call center. Why did you leave each?” “The café closed. The bookstore downsized. The call center—” I hesitated. “—didn’t pay enough to live on.” He leaned back, fingers steepled. “Honest. Most people invent better stories.” “I don’t have time to lie.” A pause. The city light slid across the glass behind him, casting silver across his cheekbone. “Tell me, Calla Monroe,” he said slowly, “how far are you willing to go for stability?” The question wasn’t casual. It coiled in the air, dark and deliberate. “I just need a job,” I managed. He tilted his head, as though tasting the sound of the word need. “Need can make people dangerous.” My pulse quickened. “And what does want make them?” That earned the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes. “Foolish.” The room seemed to shrink. Every second stretched, taut with something unspoken. Then he stood, coming around the desk with quiet authority. He wasn’t touching me, not even close, yet I felt his presence like heat. “I’ll let you know my decision tomorrow,” he said, stopping just beside me. “In the meantime, consider what you truly want, Ms. Monroe. If you work for me, you’ll learn that every choice has a cost.” --- Outside, the afternoon sun glared against the glass towers. I didn’t remember leaving the building — only the feeling of his gaze following me long after the doors closed behind me. I pressed a hand to my chest. My heart was still running. For the first time in weeks, the fear that usually clawed at my ribs had changed shape. It wasn’t hopelessness anymore. It was curiosity — dangerous, magnetic curiosity. And that, I realized, was far worse.