Chapter 7
seven
VANESSA
“I’d say you clean up nice, but I’m just really thankful you’re clean,” my sister, Val, said from the bed. She barely glanced at me before turning back to her nightly telenovela.
She was right. I had finally gotten my ass out of bed. I’d showered. My hair was brushed and crumb-free. I was wearing deodorant and what I liked to call my "boss bitch" suit.
“Mom said there was an imprint of your body in the mattress from how long you’ve been sleeping in those crusty sheets.”
Sisterly love and support at its finest. Normally, I’d have clapped back with something equally cutting, but since she was here to doll me up for the fundraiser, I bit my tongue.
Val and I were thick as thieves—twin souls split into two bodies.
Nobody got me the way she did. Sometimes we didn’t even need words; just one look and we’d be doubled over laughing.
“Where do you want me?” I asked.
Val was a beautician by trade, and I swore she could make anyone look like a masterpiece. Makeup for her was what tulle was to me. She didn’t even answer, her eyes glued to the screen.
I snapped my fingers in front of her face. “Earth to Valeria. Where. Do. You. Want. Me?”
Without looking away, she muttered, “Get a chair. Face away from the TV.”
I dragged a chair over and sat. She worked methodically, almost robotically, while the novela played. I half-expected to look like a circus clown when she was done. It was only during a commercial break that she studied my face for real.
“Mom said Elliott was here the other day.”
She didn’t pry; it was just an understanding between us. One sentence was enough to unravel everything.
“Yeah,” I muttered, unwilling to get into it.
I told Val everything, but that visit didn’t deserve oxygen. Over the past week, I’d cataloged at least fifteen different ways to plan his untimely demise. Honestly, it was the only thing keeping me sane.
“Have you told them yet? That he fired you?”
My little sister and brother, Valeria and Victor, had inherited blue eyes from some long-gone grandparent, while Valentin and I got dark eyes and hair. The family joke was always that they were the milkman’s kids. Val stared at me with those big blue eyes, waiting.
“No. I haven’t told them. So keep it to yourself. I don’t want to worry them until I have to.”
Dad’s shoulders were shot from decades in a factory, and mom had worn out her back after a lifetime of hard labor. My paycheck was their paycheck, too. My siblings helped when they could, but they had their own little mouths to feed. I’d carry the weight until I couldn’t anymore.
“Okay. You’re all done.”
She nodded toward the mirror. I looked. The makeup was understated. Classic. Perfect.
“How do you know how I want to look without asking?”
She shrugged. “I kept it simple. Just layered extra concealer under those luggage bags you call eyes.”
I pinched her side, and she swatted me away. I kissed her forehead before I left. “Thanks.” I paused at the door. “Oh, and Emiliano cheats on Isadora with her stepsister.”
Her jaw dropped. Her fists balled.
“Ta-ta.” I wiggled my fingers at her and headed out, feeling smug.
I was still grinning about her face when I ran into my parents in the living room, camera in hand.
“Ay, mija, you look beautiful. Let me take a picture.”
Dad fumbled with the camera while I stood there awkwardly. Thank God for pockets. “It’s not prom, Papi. You don’t have to take pictures.”
“Ay, shut up, mija. Let me get my picture.” He snapped a few, then kissed my forehead. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered.
Morgan had invited them tonight, but events like this made them sad. They had loved Catherine and Christopher almost as much as I did.
“You’re proud of me for showering and putting on deodorant?”
“No seas mensa.” He smacked the back of my head lightly, telling me not to be a dummy. “But yes. I’m glad I can finally stand near you again.” He waved his hand in front of his nose dramatically, and I laughed.
Mom stepped in and kissed my cheek. “You look beautiful, sí? Maybe you’ll even meet someone?” She eyed my suit with disdain. “Couldn’t wear a dress?”
“No, mom.”
Her eyes dropped to my Converse—the final offense. She rushed off and came back with a pair of heels. “Here, mija. Just in case.”
I took them, planning to ditch them in the car. Mom still looked at me like my suit had personally offended her.
“I’ll be back early,” I promised.
I kissed them both again and headed outside. The foundation car was waiting—and so was Lucifer himself.
“Just making sure you wouldn’t chicken out,” he said, leaning against the car.
“How long have you been out here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. I’d received the alert over half an hour ago. Had he really just been loitering on my lawn?
He ignored my question. “Black, really? You look like you’re going to a funeral.”
I glanced at him. White shirt, tie undone, looking effortlessly smug. Hypocrite. “Haven’t you heard? I’m in mourning.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he hid the smile and opened the car door. I sidestepped him and closed the door only to re-open it myself. Inside, he eyed the heels at my feet.
“What’s with the shoes?”
“Fuck the patriarchy.”
“Your mom?”
“Yes.” I grinned. “My abuela is probably rolling in her grave, too.”
He studied me for a beat. “Do you wear pants to cover your knee?”
Screeching tires went off in my brain. I whipped my head toward him, my glare sharp enough to cut. “I wear pants because I want to. Mind your business, Satan.”
My heart was pounding. My breaths came fast. I wrapped myself tighter in avoidance—the Miranda family’s favorite coping mechanism. The car wove through LA side streets, a blessedly short trip. Still, the air between us felt suffocating.
“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked suddenly, his voice casual as he looked out the window.
I didn’t buy the act. Casual meant it burned him that I’d said no. Men like Elliott didn’t hear that word. Ever. “That wasn’t an offer. That was something else.”
He finally looked at me. “Something else?”
“I haven’t figured it out yet. But I will. You fired me just to rehire me, no, something isn’t adding up.”
“You’re an animal, Nessa. The only way to get a reaction out of you is to corner you.”
I scoffed. “You make me sound rabid. I’m not your pawn. Call me stubborn, naive, whatever you want—but don’t you dare call me dumb.”
“You’re right.”
Everything in me halted. Elliott James never conceded. Ever.
“Can I record that and play it while I fall asleep?” I asked.
“Only if you touch yourself to it.”
The heel was in my hand before I even realized it, and in the air even faster, but he knocked it away easily.
His grin was soft. Shy, almost. It threw me off more than anything.
Something was different about him tonight.
Less armor, more… nerves? It could have been a trick.
It probably was. But I vowed to find out before the night was over.
The car stopped. He got out first, and I followed as we headed toward the flashing cameras. His hand landed on my lower back, guiding me.
I glared. “Remove your hand if you want to keep it.”
He grinned and put both hands up in mock surrender. We slipped past the cameras through a side door. An assistant practically exhaled in relief when he saw me, rushing me backstage. Suddenly, it was chaos—questions, bodies, lights. Then there was only him again. Elliott. Brown eyes locked on mine.
“You nervous?”
“About public speaking? No.” That part was true; I lived for adrenaline like this. “About what I’m going to say? Absolutely.”
It was the one thing we never talked about. Catherine. But he knew.
“I know you’ll figure it out,” he said, and then he was gone.
The next twenty or thirty minutes passed in a blur.
Suddenly, an assistant was shoving me toward the stage.
Bright lights blinded me, turning the audience into a dark, expectant sea.
The announcer shook my hand, pointed me to the podium, and disappeared.
I was alone. The crowd waited—breathless and silent.
I hadn’t written a speech. I couldn’t. Catherine James was too big for words. So, I told the truth.
“I couldn’t put Catherine Elizabeth James into words if I tried,” I started, my voice echoing, “but I was told this speech has to be at least a few hundred words.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. I didn’t join in. “Any attempt I make up here today will never be enough to convey who she was.”
I told them about the pimply thirteen-year-old she’d saved.
About the safe place she’d given me. About first kisses, first scrapes, first fights.
About the designer she’d made me. About how, on my best days, I was just a poor man’s Catherine James.
By the time I finished, my voice shook, but I meant every word.
“She changed lives. She changed mine. And through this foundation, she’ll keep changing them. Please—give generously tonight. Thank you.”
Applause erupted. Some stood. I didn’t linger. Backstage again, the nervous intern rushed forward.
“So… about the auction…”