The Girl Before
The red dress was still on the floor when Katrina woke up. She hadn't meant to fall asleep. She'd meant to take it off. To fold it. To not get attached to something that wasn't blue and Vega-approved.
But she was tired. Tired of thinking. Tired of flinching. Tired of being new data.
The bandage was still on her palm. The cut was nothing. The scar under her ribs was everything.
She sat up. The room was quiet. No Alexandra on the couch. No note. No Alexandra at all.
Maybe he regretted the red dress. Maybe Eleanor saw it and told him "we don't wear that shade." Maybe "contracts don't cover blood" was just something rich men said when they felt guilty for five minutes.
Katrina pressed her hands to her face. And then, because no one was watching, she let herself remember. All of it. From the start.
_Her mother was twenty-one when she met Richard Alvarez._
That was how the story always started. Not "once upon a time." Just that. A fact. Twenty-one. Working as a receptionist at his import company in Mexico City. Richard was forty. Married. Two sons in private school. A wife who lunched with politicians' wives.
Her mother, Lucia, wasn't stupid. She knew. But Richard was charming when he wanted to be. He brought flowers. He said his marriage was "paper only." He said he was lonely. He rented her an apartment. He said "I'll take care of you."
He did. Until she got pregnant.
Then it was "be discreet." Then it was "my wife can't know." Then it was "we'll send money monthly, but you can't come to the office."
Katrina was born in a private clinic that Richard paid for. He visited once. Held her for thirty seconds. Said she had his eyes. Then left. He never held her again.
_Illegitimate._ She learned that word at seven. Richard's real wife found out and sent a driver to the apartment with an envelope. No words. Just money. And a message: _"Keep her away from my sons. She's not family."_
So Katrina grew up in the "mistress apartment." Two bedrooms. Clean. Quiet. Richard paid the bills until she was fifteen, then said "she's old enough, you can work again, Lucia."
Her mother did. She worked nights at a clinic as a nurse's aide. She came home smelling like antiseptic and exhaustion. But she still smiled.
And Katrina? Katrina was _lively._
That was the word from the reports Alexandra read. It was true, back then.
She was lively at home when her mother was there. She'd dance in the kitchen while her mother made quesadillas. She'd tell jokes about school. She'd paint her nails bright pink and ask "does this look like a rich girl's nails, Mamá?" and her mother would laugh and say "you _are_ a rich girl's daughter. Just not the one they claim."
She was lively at school too. Not popular. The other girls knew who her father was. Whispers followed her: _"bastarda," "la querida's kid."_ But she had two friends, Rosa and Carmen. She ran track. She got good grades. She talked too loud, laughed too much. Teachers wrote "bright but disruptive" on her reports.
Richard saw those reports. He paid for the private school. He never came to parent-teacher nights. But he kept the reports in a file. Alexandra probably had that file now.
_Everything changed when she was twenty-two._
Her mother got sick. Breast cancer. The clinic job didn't have insurance. The bills came fast. Richard said "I have a real family to support. I can't."
Matteo appeared then. Richard's business partner's son. Thirty. Handsome. "He likes you," Richard told her. "He'll marry you. He'll pay for your mother's treatment if you do."
Katrina said no. Her mother said "please." Not for herself. For Katrina. "If I die, who will protect you from him? From the world? Married women are safer."
So she married Matteo.
She was still lively at the rehearsal dinner. Nervous, but smiling. She wore yellow. She danced with Rosa.
The quiet started on the wedding night.
Matteo drank. He said "you're not a virgin, are you? Mistress's daughters never are." She said nothing. He hit her the first time that night. Open palm. Across the face. "Don't look at me like that."
She didn't tell her mother. Her mother was in chemo.
After that, she learned quiet. Quiet didn't get hit. Quiet didn't get called _"just like your mother, spreading her legs for money."_ Quiet cleaned the blood off the tile. Quiet lied to Rosa and said "I fell."
But she wasn't quiet everywhere. When she visited her mother in the hospital, she was still lively. For an hour. She'd bring magazines. Do her mother's nails. Tell stories about the grocery store like it was an adventure. Her mother would touch her cheek and say "there you are, _mija_. I was scared you left."
She was lively there. Because her mother was the only person who never made her feel like a mistake.
Then her mother died. Two years into the marriage to Matteo.
The lively died with her.
Matteo cheated. First with his secretary. Then with waitresses. Then with anyone. He didn't hide it. "You're lucky I married you," he'd say. "No one else would. You're used goods. Like your mother."
He beat her when he was drunk. When he was sober. When dinner was cold. When she spoke. When she didn't.
She stopped going out. Stopped calling Rosa. Stopped laughing. Richard saw her once, at her mother's funeral. Looked at the bruise on her jaw and said "don't cause a scene. Matteo is important to the business."
That was the last time she spoke to her father.
Three months ago, Matteo left. Said "I'm done playing house with Richard's basura." He emptied their accounts. He left her with the apartment and the debt.
Then Victor Vega called Richard. "We need the Mexico City port. We'll take the girl. Clear your debt. We'll pay her mother's remaining hospital bills to your company as a write-off."
Richard said yes. He didn't ask Katrina. He told her. "You'll marry Alexandra Vega. Be grateful. It's better than you deserve."
So here she was.
In a guest room. In a red dress. Married to a man who picked up glass but also read reports about her like she was a stock.
Katrina hugged her knees. The scar ached. Or maybe it was her chest.
_What turn will your life take now, Katrina?_
Option 1: Alexandra is like Matteo. The kindness is a trick. He'll wait a month, a year, until the contracts are solid, until Victor is happy, and then he'll hit her. Or cheat. Or both. Men like him didn't marry mistress's daughters for love. They married them for leverage. And leverage didn't need to be respected.
Option 2: Alexandra keeps treating her like a budget line. A "wife" to be displayed at luncheons, to wear blue, to not break glasses. No touching. No yelling. Just… nothing. A quiet, cold, polite nothing until she was 80. Could she survive that? She survived Matteo. But Matteo hurt her body. Nothing would hurt her soul.
Option 3: Something else. Something the reports didn't predict. _Contracts don't cover blood._ What did that mean? Was it pity? Was it the start of something worse, like "I see you're broken so I'll be careful when I break you more"?
She didn't know.
She only knew what she used to be. Lively. Loud. A girl who painted her nails pink and danced in kitchens.
Matteo killed that girl.
Richard let him.
Victor bought what was left.
Alexandra… Alexandra put a bandage in her hand and told her to wear red.
Her phone was on the floor. She picked it up. No new texts. Just his last three from yesterday:
*Alexandra:* Did Matteo cut you?
He hadn't asked if Richard did. He asked about Matteo. He knew where the damage came from.
Her fingers hovered. She could tell him. She could type _"Yes. And Richard let him. And I'm scared you will too."_
She didn't.
Instead she stood. Walked to the mirror. The red dress was wrinkled from sleep but it was still loud. Still alive.
"Hi," she whispered to her reflection. Her voice cracked. "I'm Katrina."
The girl in the mirror didn't answer. But she didn't flinch either.
Downstairs, a door opened. Footsteps. Alexandra's, maybe. Or Eleanor's. Or Victor's.
She had two choices. Stay here and be quiet. Or go down and be… something. Not lively. Not yet. But not invisible.
She touched the scar through the dress. Then she opened the bedroom door.
She didn't know what kind of man Alexandra was. But she was done letting men decide what kind of woman she got to be.
Even if it was just for today.