8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Camila Flores
I ’ve been working nonstop all week to be able to take this Friday afternoon off. I already cleared it with my manager, but I haven’t been able to bring it up with Mr. Godoy.
Ever since I told him what I thought about handling the vineyard employees, he became more of a dick—if that’s even possible. I thought I was helping him, but clearly I crossed a line.
Too bad.
The more time I spend in this job, the more I learn the ropes, and the more I enjoy it.
“Hello, this is Camila speaking. How may I help you?” I say, taking a call on Mr. Godoy’s direct line. It must be one of his friends.
“Hi, this is Owen Clarke. I’m trying to reach Vic, but his mobile seems to be turned off,” the man says with a very thick London accent.
I freeze.
It couldn’t be the same Owen Clarke I met all those years ago. Right? I mean, that would be crazy. This city is huge, there’s no way it’s him.
I shake off the thought.
“Oh, yes. Mr. Godoy’s phone is off, but I can take a message if you want me to relay it to him,” I say, grabbing my feathery pen and my green notepad. I like to take notes on different notepads depending on the day—Friday’s color is green.
“Yes, please tell him to stop being an arsehole and pick up the phone. He was supposed to come with me to a meeting and never showed up,” the man snaps before hanging up.
My jaw hits the floor.
Wow, he’s definitely pissed at my boss.
I jot down the message but decide against calling or texting. Instead, I send Mr. Godoy an email about his very unhappy friend.
Once I hit send, I take a minute to go to the bathroom and give myself a pep talk. “Okay, babes. You’ve handled worse arseholes than your boss. Well… Not really. He’s one of a kind. But this is for Ava, it’s not you playing hooky. You got this.”
Blowing myself a kiss, I smooth my hair and check my reflection. I want to at least look nice for the cameras as I let him know I’m leaving for the day.
I walk back into the office space with all the sass I can muster, shaking my bum a little too much for being in an office, but I know my assets. Since he’s been a dick to me, I can play dirty, too.
“Mr. Godoy, the last meeting for today is already waiting for you on line two,” I say the moment he picks up the phone. It’s one o’clock here but only ten in the morning in Santiago— plenty of time for him to take the afternoon to tour the vineyard as planned.
Looking straight at the camera, I add, “Also, Mr. Godoy, I’ll be leaving in about ten minutes. I’ve already cleared it with my manager.”
His face suddenly fills my computer screen.
“Wait, wait—hold on a second. What do you mean you’re leaving early. Why?” he demands.
Wow . I didn’t realize he could just pop-up like that.
Hot damn . He’s even more handsome than the pictures I’ve seen online. A faint stubble shadows his jaw, and instead of a three-piece suit I’ve seen him wear in pictures, he’s in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
I’ve read about arm porn, but I’ve actually never seen it—until now.
“Ms. Flores,” he says, clearing his throat.
“Yes, here. I’m sorry.” I touch my hair and I press my lips together hard, not really knowing what to say.
“Why are you leaving early, Ms. Flores?”
He heaves an exasperated sigh, and the dicktator I’m used to dealing with is back.
All that manly hotness threw me off for a second, but this I can handle.
“I have a medical appointment,” I say without any other explanation.
He remains completely immobile. For a moment, I think the image froze—until he raises his eyebrows.
I press my lips together again, this time to keep from laughing.
“My daughter has a medical appointment, Mr. Godoy, and she’s five. I need to go with her.”
“And why do you have to take her? Where’s her father?”
I blink, stunned.
My eyes widen at his question, which is absolutely none of his business.
“He’s dead, Mr. Godoy. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get going. All documents are in their respective folders. I’ll see you on Monday.”
Without waiting for a response, I turn off my computer.
I don’t care how I look. I don’t care if I walk with enough pep in my step.
The nerve of this man.
What a dick .
I make my way to the Tube, practically power walking. All the good vibes I was feeling earlier are long gone thanks to one very hot, very infuriating boss.
Why did he have to inquire about Ava’s father like that? Does it even matter if the father is present? I’m an employee, not a slave. I’m allowed to take time off.
I know parents are protective by nature, but when it comes to Ava, I am a lioness. Under no circumstances will I compromise her well-being, nor do I need to share my daughter’s genetic condition with anyone.
His questions play over and over in my mind all the way back to the flat. It’s rare that I let myself sink into a bad mood, but Mr. Godoy definitely did the trick today.
As soon as I walk into the flat, a familiar, sweet voice calls out
“Hi, Mummy!”
Instantly, a smidge of my frustration fades when I see her smile.
“My little duckling, come here.”
I bend and open my arms so Ava can hug me easier.
“How are you, baby?” I ask, inhaling the lavender scent of her hair.
“I’m very good, Mummy. Mrs. Evans helped me get ready.”
She pulls out of the hug and twirls around, showing me the pink dress she’s wearing. Mrs. Evans fixed her hair into a single plait, using only the top section, tight it with a pink bow. My baby girl looks beautiful.
“Thank you, Mrs. Evans,” I say, straightening to my full height.
“It was my pleasure, dear,” she says as she grabs her key from the dining table. After placing a kiss on Ava’s head, she gives me a questioning look.
But instead of leaving, she takes a seat at the table.
My throat tightens, and my eyes immediately water.
“Ava, sweetie, do you want to work on one of those coloring pages for me? I’d like to put it on my fridge.”
Ava nods excitedly and goes to her art corner in the living room.
Mrs. Evans turns back to me, gently taking my hand in hers. “What happened?”
Before replying, I take a few calming breaths—I don’t want Ava to hear me cry.
“I’ve been avoiding telling Mr. Godoy all week about me leaving early today. So, of course, as I was heading out, he questioned me. When I told him I needed to take my daughter to the doctor, he asked why her father couldn’t take her.”
I purse my lips tightly, willing my tears not to fall.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry. Please make no mistake, I’m not saying what he said was right, but in his head, everyone has it just as easy as he does.”
She pauses to check for curious ears nearby, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“Think about it—that man has people to cook for him, clean for him, and handle everything. He even has a bloody jet! He doesn’t know how the rest of us live,” she says.
I know she’s right—he’s a billionaire without a care in the world.
But still, the way he asked bothered me.
“I understand that, Mrs. Evans. I just wish he had trusted me enough as his assistant to take my word for it.”
We’ve reached a dead end, I know there’s nothing else to say. I just have to deal with it.
Ava returns to the dining area with a drawing of two stick figures holding two bunches of flowers. Mrs. Evans hugs her and thanks her for the picture before quietly leaving.
“Are you ready?” I say in a bright tone, shaking thoughts of the dicktator out of my head.
Ava doesn’t like the transfusions, but as she grows older, she understands better she needs them to stay healthy.
She was two years old when she was diagnosed with thalassemia. I thought the world was going to end, but the doctors at the local hospital have been nothing short of amazing.
Ava nods her head as she brings her duck plushie tightly to her chest.
“Everything is going to be fine, sweet baby. Then we’ll have all weekend to rest.”
I finally see a small smile on my girl’s face, and I release a breath and smile back.
“We don’t want to be late. Let’s go.”
I grab Ava’s hand, and after I lock the door, we leave for the Tube.
The ride is quiet. I can feel Ava’s anxiety starting to rise. The way her little hands are fidgeting with the duckie’s tale is my signal to help her relax.
I grab her hand and squeeze it twice—our secret signal to do a breathing exercise together. She nods, and I start counting softly.
“One in. Two out. Three in. Four out.”
By the time we finish, I notice she has stopped fidgeting with the duckie.
I sigh in relief.
Even though we’ve gone through this at least once a month since she was two, Ava is still not a big fan of hospitals. I wish we could do these transfusions at home—maybe she would feel more comfortable. But that would cost money, and it’s something I just can’t afford.
The moment we enter the children’s ward, Ava squeezes my hand. I shake hers gently, letting her know I’m not going anywhere.
“Hello there, Ava. We were waiting for you,” Nurse Smith says with a big smile.
Ava hides behind me, peeking out slowly.
“Come on, baby. We have to do this,” I urge as I turn and hold her in my arms.
She buries her face in my neck, and it takes everything in me to not cry. I wish I was the one with this damn disorder instead of my baby. But it’s a genetic disorder, and after many tests, the doctors determined it didn’t come from me. They speculated it must have been passed down by Konstantine.
We’re directed to one of the empty beds in the ward, and Ava lies down, getting comfortable. I remove her shoes, and she playfully wiggles her toes.
I tickle them, making her giggle.
I would do anything in this life, just so my baby wouldn’t have to deal with this.
Nurse Smith arrives with a bag of blood, holding it up for another nurse to confirm the correct blood type—AB positive. The other nurse nods, and she hangs the bag, scans it for verification, then cleans her hands with sanitizer before putting gloves on.
I grab Ava’s hand and start talking with her about our weekend plans, doing my best to distract her.
“There’s the pinch,” Nurse Smith says gently.
Ava winces.
“Breath, baby. Take deep breaths.”
Her eyes fill with unshed tears as I breathe along with her, trying to keep calm as well.
“Maybe you want to watch a show while we’re here?” I suggest.
Her eyes light up.
“A YouTube video?” she pleads, eyes hopeful.
There’s no way I’ll say no right now. I don’t usually let her watch YouTube, but one day she caught me watching ASMR videos, and she became obsessed.
By the time we’ve chosen a video, Nurse Smith is finished. She pats Ava’s hand and leaves the room.
Ava’s eyes are glued to my phone screen, while mine check everything around us, making sure she’s comfortable for the couple of hours this process takes.
By the time we’re back home, Ava is asleep. I carry her to my room, and after changing into my pajamas, I lie down beside her.
Days like today are draining, but I’m grateful she’s getting the treatment she needs.
We’ll have to go back next week to check her iron levels, and if they’re high, she’ll need chelation.
I hope she doesn’t.
The fewer treatments, the fewer needle pricks—the better.