Dalia woke to the sound of her phone buzzing against the coffee table where she'd fallen asleep. Her neck ached from the awkward angle against the couch arm, and morning light streamed through her single window, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air like tiny, mocking spirits.
The display showed 6:47 AM and seventeen missed calls from her mother.
Panic shot through her as she scrambled to answer, nearly dropping the phone in her haste. "Mama? What's wrong?"
"Dalia, gracias a Dios. I've been calling all night." Her mother's voice was thick with worry and exhaustion. "Mrs. Santos saw the news about Henderson & Associates. She said they laid off half their staff. Tell me it's not true."
The lie almost came automatically. After years of shielding her mother from the worst of their family's struggles, the instinct to protect her felt as natural as breathing. But the weight of the eviction notice on her kitchen counter made the words stick in her throat.
"It's true," she said quietly.
The silence stretched between them, filled with everything they couldn't afford to lose. Finally, Elena spoke, her voice smaller now. "How long do we have?"
We. As if they were still a team, still fighting together instead of Dalia drowning alone while her mother worked herself to death trying to stay afloat.
"Thirty days for the apartment. I'll figure something out."
"You could come home. I know it's not much, but the couch folds out, and maybe if we both looked for work..."
Home. The studio apartment in Queens where her mother had moved after losing the house. Where the walls were too thin and the heat barely worked and Elena Moreno pretended she wasn't slowly killing herself to keep them both alive.
"I can't do that to you, Mama."
"You're not doing anything to me. You're my daughter."
The simple statement hit harder than any accusation could have. Dalia closed her eyes, pressing the phone against her ear like she could somehow absorb her mother's strength through the connection.
"Let me try a few more things first. I'll call you tonight, okay?"
After Elena hung up, promising to light a candle for her at evening mass, Dalia sat in the growing morning light and tried to summon the energy to face another day of rejection emails and automated responses.
Her laptop was still closed on the kitchen table. She'd avoided it last night, but reality had a way of demanding attention. The screen flickered to life, showing her desktop background: a photo of the Moreno Construction crew breaking ground on what should have been their biggest project. Her father stood in the center, hard hat slightly crooked, grinning at the camera like he owned the world.
The project that had destroyed them all.
Her email inbox was a graveyard of opportunity. Forty-three new messages, and she could tell from the subject lines that most were automated rejections or bills she couldn't pay. She scrolled through them mechanically, deleting and filing with the efficiency of someone who'd made hopelessness into a routine.
Thank you for your interest, but...
We've decided to move forward with another candidate...
This position has been filled...
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made her look up. The mail slot in her door creaked open, and something fell to the floor with a soft thud that seemed too heavy for regular mail.
Frowning, she padded barefoot across the worn carpet to investigate.
The envelope was like nothing she'd ever seen.
Heavy black paper, the kind that suggested money and importance, with her name written across the front in silver ink that seemed to shimmer in the morning light. No return address, no postmark, just her name in handwriting so precise it looked almost printed.
Ms. Dalia Moreno.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned it over. The back was sealed with what looked like actual wax, deep red and embossed with some kind of symbol she couldn't quite make out. It felt substantial in her hands, weighted with possibility or threat.
She carried it back to the couch, setting it on the coffee table like it might explode. In her twenty-six years, she'd never received anything that looked remotely this expensive or formal. The closest she'd come was her college graduation announcement, and even that had been printed on discount paper from Staples.
The wax seal broke with a satisfying crack, releasing the faint scent of something expensive and masculine. The paper inside was cream-colored and thick, the kind that probably cost more per sheet than she spent on food in a day.
The letterhead made her breath catch.
Ward Enterprises.
She knew that name. Everyone in New York knew that name. Ward Enterprises owned half of Manhattan, their sleek black towers reaching toward the sky like fingers claiming everything they touched. The company was worth billions, the kind of money that existed in a completely different universe from her own.
The letter itself was brief, almost brutally so:
Ms. Moreno,
Ward Enterprises has a position that may be of interest to you. Personal assistant to the CEO, competitive salary, full benefits, immediate start available.
If you are interested in discussing this opportunity, please call the number below before 5 PM today. Ask for Margaret Chen.
Discretion is expected and will be compensated accordingly.
W.E. Human Resources
Below the text was a phone number with a Manhattan area code and a salary figure that made her eyes widen. Six figures. More money than she'd ever imagined making, more than her father had earned in his best year.
She read it three times, looking for the catch, the fine print, the explanation for why a company like Ward Enterprises would offer a job to someone like her. But there was nothing. Just the elegant script and the impossible opportunity.
Her hands were shaking now. This had to be a mistake. Some cosmic error that had dropped this envelope through the wrong mail slot, meant for some other Dalia Moreno who actually qualified for positions at Fortune 500 companies.
But the envelope had been addressed specifically to her apartment. And there couldn't be that many Dalia Morenos in Manhattan who'd just lost their jobs and were facing eviction.
Could there?
She grabbed her laptop and searched for Ward Enterprises, though she already knew what she'd find. The company's website was sleek and imposing, all black and silver with photos of their properties dominating skylines around the world. The CEO's bio was surprisingly brief: Cassian Ward, 32, inherited control of Ward Enterprises at 25 following his father's death. Under his leadership, the company has expanded into luxury real estate, private equity, and technology ventures.
The accompanying photo showed a man with dark hair and cold eyes, wearing a suit that probably cost more than her rent. He looked like he'd never doubted anything in his life, never wondered where his next meal was coming from or whether he'd have a roof over his head next month.
The kind of man who lived in a completely different world from hers.
The clock on her laptop showed 11:23 AM. She had less than six hours to decide whether to make the call that could change everything or let this impossible opportunity slip away like everything else good in her life.
Outside her window, the city hummed with its usual indifference. Somewhere in one of those glass towers, people were making decisions that would affect thousands of lives without ever knowing the names of the people they were destroying or saving.
Dalia looked at the letter again, then at the eviction notice still crumpled on her counter. The choice, when she finally acknowledged it, wasn't really a choice at all.
She had nothing left to lose.
Her fingers were steady now as she reached for her phone and dialed the number that might save her life or destroy what was left of it entirely.