30
ALASKA
Would you look at that—I rolled up to the MANSION with the ridiculous plan of spending an afternoon, playing rich for a minute, and bam: it’s been over three months and counting.
A suitcase? Please. That’s for organized people or Russian exiles.
I showed up with a canvas backpack and a dead phone.
All thanks to Vega, queen of cut-rate strategy.
The official version is the “poor thing who just wanted to find out who her Russian sister was and messed everything up.” I know the truth.
I don’t know if Vega’s brilliant or missing pieces, but she’s got intention—and an agenda.
She gives you the garden tour while feeding coordinates to Interpol with the other hand, then acts shocked.
Result of her intelligence op: now we live here, with guards who wish us good morning and give us the weather report. “Forever,” they say. I say we’ll see.
Not even a week in and we had a whole council of lawyers, folders, seals, and a hell of a mess. Topic of the day: change the last name on my ID card to streamline the inheritance. Vega, who hears a bell and is already clapping, said, "Yes, please."
Me, with my Alaska Vázquez tattooed on my forehead and in my soul, said, "No way."
The lawyer blinked. "It would make the paperwork easier."
"It would make my life easier if someone brought croquettes to my bed. That doesn’t mean my name is Croquette Vázquez."
What I thought was: if the balance has six zeros, my principles wobble and I turn into the Dalai Lama of paperwork. What I said was: "My name is my business card, my résumé, my aura. You take it away and I’m in my socks. And I’m not some movie spy who debuts a fresh passport every Tuesday, so no."
Irina arched an eyebrow, made one call, then another, and on day three sat us down and dropped the unvarnished bomb: "A third of the house for each of you. And a stipend you can live on. I’ll manage it, for obvious reasons."
My inner translator: the house is yours, I move the money. And me, tough about the name but pragmatic about cash in two seconds flat: "Perfect. Make it airtight and I’ll sign."
I signed. My hand shook a little and I let out a weak laugh. A third of the MANSION. Not even in my most ridiculous fantasies—the ones where an army of unicorns brings me breakfast and a dragon lights my cigarette.
This is for real. The deed laminated, with a seal and everything. Where it’s kept I’m not saying even under a Twilight recap marathon on loop. I don’t have much self-respect, but there’s a little left.
The thing is, it’s not just bricks and a pool with questionable water.
There’s family here—the kind that chases you with food.
No joke. First night, I got late-night fridge anxiety and padded down to the kitchen a little past four, not exactly subtle.
Light on. Julia appears—floral robe, tight bun—gives me the up-and-down and, without asking, sets down a sandwich loaded with Spanish salami that fixed my soul and my blood sugar.
I ate it with such glee it was honestly embarrassing.
The next night, another plate ready, with a ridiculous note that said, "In case a polar bear drops by." I laughed alone at the counter and nearly choked on the Spanish omelet; I had to drink straight from the faucet—so classy.
The schedule control is real. One day I get back late from walking the garden—which here is basically a full-on hike. Hallway, spotlight in my face, clipboard, and the guard I already call Paco because I like him.
"Time you got in," he says.
"Come on, Paco, I got sidetracked staring at the moon."
"Noted: minor delay."
Then comes the maternal move: a touch on the arm and, did I eat. They clock you, sure, but not for sport. They clock you because they care, and being monitored with affection gives me fewer hives every day.
Daily logistics have their charm. Irina insists we need a security plan. I nod like a COO, and inside I’m organizing DoorDash sushi for the whole house, matching T-shirts that say Team Mansion, and a playlist with Dua Lipa and Megan Thee Stallion for motivation.
Irina looks at me like I’m signing mortgages with a pen from the dollar store, but she loves me; you can tell because she saves me croissants.
And here I am, playing tough about the last name while going feral for my new life of paychecks that hit without me having to sleep with anyone, breakfast laid out without lifting a finger, bodyguards watching my back, and that bizarre feeling that someone finally wraps a scarf around me without being asked.
Sometimes I fantasize about riding out on a motorcycle with the Kill Bill soundtrack on loop and a matte helmet, no mirrors so I don’t have to look at my decisions, and I picture myself parking far away, living alone, eating instant ramen.
But then I remember the pool, the always-loaded table, and the giant bed, and I tell myself: one more month won’t kill me.
Being a Popova has fine print, sis, but it’s worth it.
Back then, Vega would say she hated being an escort in that voice that wants to crawl under the bed and lock the door from the outside.
And me, thinking I’m funny and deserving a tacky little award for trying, I’d crack jokes that didn’t fix a thing.
Now I hear her tell it steady, fast, no pauses, no guilt glued to her tongue, none of that about-to-shatter look.
I stay still; I don’t want to touch the peace and break the spell—okay, not a spell, you know what I mean, just… calm.
I was going to save the Mikel thing for another chapter, but I can’t keep it in, I’ll burst: my sister fell in love.
The same one who kept her heart deadbolted and had a blacklist worse than Arya Stark’s by season six now has a boyfriend.
And not a random one, no—Mikel, who doesn’t push—he walks beside her.
Infinite patience. He asks just enough. Actually listens. Dresses well.
She’d never been in love, triple-locked, and on top of that there was the rule that she’d only have sex if she fell in love, laid out on the table from day one, which basically meant virgin.
Yes: escort and virgin, two words in a row that make anyone’s brain explode if they don’t get Vega.
And I was worried, because I knew exactly where the block came from, but now I see her with Mikel and I can breathe again, because when he looks at her, Vega’s shoulders drop, she lets weight go, stops fighting the air, and laughs.
And when she laughs, I stop chewing my hangnails.
The mansion barged into our life and now there’s no way to kick it out, and I swear at first I thought I was going to lose my mind.
But hey, habit is a bitch and you end up adapting to everything, even Hogwarts-level rules minus the fun spells; instead of Filch we’ve got Irina: curfews, doors that won’t open, bodyguards, and a daily choice among three kinds of mineral water, in case you were low on absurdity.
I used to bite my tongue not to scream I had cabin fever.
Now, not even that. Call it laziness, call it getting used to it, call it the no-limit card working like Klonopin—whatever.
I’ve become almost functional in this rich-people life, which said fast sounds arrogant, but in my case it’s pure survival.
And yeah, the mafia thing is real, even if it’s not what I pictured.
The mansion has theme-park vibes—everything spotless, pretty, aesthetic, inhabitants included.
Standard rich-life facade, but scratch a little and you get serious hierarchies, protocols, guns you don’t see but know are there, sensors even in the vases, doors that are a no today, maybe tomorrow, hired muscle dressed as butlers, and secrets, lots of them—the kind you don’t spill in confession or in therapy.
Neither Vega nor I are stupid, so it took us a minute to unclench and trust. We’re living it at our usual intensity—you know me—but we keep a parallel agenda, Plan A, Plan B, and a little theater.
We’re learning the system: who’s in charge, who obeys, what face they make when they lie.
We listen with our ear to the doors, take night excursions, open rooms and drawers that by day are locked tight and mean, and we write everything down.
Schedules, exits, entrances, what they do when they think no one’s looking, what weapons they carry, who escorts whom, who pretends not to see.
I carry a notebook with old stickers and a chewed-up pen; Vega prefers to record it on her phone and then rename the files with song titles to throw people off, and yes, I crack up every time I tap “Mr. Brightside” and it’s actually the map of Hallway C.
And then there’s Mikel, who isn’t an idiot, but he’s in love.
He told Vega just enough for it to click and for us to slam on the brakes, because we were about to play the teenage roles they’ve stuck us with here, dump the mess on them, and bail for ice cream without looking back.
At this point I’m sure they’ll handle it, yeah—but I can smell it won’t be in a way that works for us.
So there’s a new plan in motion, beta build with upgrades and a false bottom, and when it’s polished I’ll tell you everything.
Now for the main event. Nat.
I swear a big chunk of the rage was about her, even if I plastered it over with ridiculous complaints—the pulpy orange juice, the butler breathing too loud, the hallway light making me look like a zombie. Lies, all of it. Just busywork so I wouldn’t cry.