Diego confronts Chase

Chase’s home was immaculate—too immaculate. Diego had always noticed that whenever he visited, everything gleamed: the polished wooden floors, the fresh flowers on the table, the faint aroma of lemon oil in the air. It was the kind of house that felt staged, like it existed only for appearances.

And there, moving about with quiet focus, was his mother. Valerie. She wore a crisp apron over her blouse and skirt, her hair pinned neatly, her hands busy setting a tray of coffee and cookies on the table. She moved with the practiced elegance of someone who had done this a thousand times.

“Diego!” Chase’s voice carried the warmth of a host greeting a guest. He rose from the leather chair by the window and gestured toward the tray. “Come, sit. Your mamá insisted on making something special today.”

Diego sat stiffly on the edge of the couch, his eyes locked on Valerie as she poured coffee, her movements graceful, her face serene. She looked… content. Too content.

“Mamá,” Diego began, his voice low, trying to pierce the surface of her calm. “We need to talk about—”

“Shh,” she hushed him softly in Spanish, pressing the small porcelain cup into his hands. “Habla bien. Estás en la casa del patrón.”

<Speak well. You're in the boss's house.>

Chase chuckled, waving it off like it was a private joke. “She’s protective of propriety,” he said with a smile. “It’s endearing, don’t you think? She’s very proud of the work she does here.”

Diego’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t who she is.” He looked directly at Chase, daring him. “You’ve done something to her. I don’t know what, but—”

Chase raised his hands, mock surrender, and leaned back in his chair, laughing lightly. “Diego, listen to yourself. What exactly do you think I’ve done? Hypnosis? Brainwashing? It sounds like the plot of a cheap telenovela.”

Valerie laughed softly at that, as if she agreed. The sound cut Diego like glass.

“Your mother has been with me for years,” Chase continued smoothly, his tone patient, fatherly. “A loyal employee. She’s always been diligent, humble, devoted. And you should be proud, Diego. She raised you, alone, with so little, and look at you—bright, fiery, suspicious even. She must have done something right, no?”

Diego shook his head, struggling. “No. She was—she was more than this. She was a doctor.” His voice cracked. “She is more than this.”

Chase’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes glittered with something sharper. “Doctors don’t scrub floors. Doctors don’t serve coffee in aprons. Look at her.” He gestured to Valerie, who was now quietly dusting a shelf, humming a Spanish tune under her breath, utterly at peace. “Does that look like a woman who’s been stolen from her life? Or does it look like a woman who has finally found her place?”

Diego turned to Valerie desperately. “Mamá—please. Tell him. Tell me who you are.”

Valerie paused, dust rag in hand, and looked at her son. Her expression softened, but not with the warmth he craved. Instead, it was the patient pity of someone speaking to a child who didn’t understand.

“Diego, no seas malcriado. Yo soy quien siempre he sido. Tu mamá. Valerie.”

<Diego, don’t be spoiled. I am who I’ve always been. Your mom. Valerie.>

She turned back to her dusting, humming again, conversation closed.

Chase sipped his coffee, unbothered, the gracious employer once more. “See, Diego? You’re imagining ghosts. You should be careful. People will start to think you don’t respect your mother.”

Diego sat frozen, the coffee cooling in his untouched cup, his pulse hammering. Chase had turned the truth into smoke in front of his eyes, and Valerie herself seemed to believe it.

And worse—everyone else in the room seemed perfectly content. Everyone but him.