No job. No account. No influence he could use without stepping back into the cage. Beatriz had thrown him into your world and then started burning the ground around you, knowing love feels different when everyone near it starts choking.
On the third day, Alejandro found work.
Not through his family.
Not through friends.
Through your neighbor Martín, who ran a small delivery business and needed someone who could manage schedules, inventory, and angry clients without panicking. Alejandro showed up in borrowed jeans and a plain shirt, looking absurdly elegant beside stacks of plastic crates.
Martín stared at him for a long time.
“You know Excel?”
Alejandro blinked.
“Yes.”
“You know how to lift boxes?”
A pause.
“I can learn.”
Martín looked at you.
“This one’s going to get blisters.”
“He already has,” you said.
Alejandro showed his hands.
He did.
Martín laughed and hired him for a trial week.
That first week nearly broke him.
He came home sore, dusty, sunburned, and quiet. The man who used to sign documents in conference rooms now carried boxes up staircases and apologized to customers when deliveries ran late. You watched him discover that exhaustion has a smell, that cheap work shoes hurt, that respect from working people is not inherited.
On Friday, Martín paid him in cash.
Alejandro stared at the bills.
Not because it was much.
Because it was earned.
He brought the money to your mother and placed it on the table.
“For groceries,” he said.
Your mother looked at the bills, then at him.
“You don’t pay for dignity with one week of work.”
“I know,” he said. “But I’d like to start.”
She did not smile.
But she took the money.
That was the first blessing.
Weeks passed.
You returned to school after Sofia, one of your classmates who worked part-time in administration, helped you file a complaint about the unexplained hold. Abril kept her job because her manager, after receiving too many “anonymous concerns,” got suspicious and decided nobody told him how to manage his staff. Your mother negotiated with the landlord like a woman who had raised daughters on little money and less mercy.
Beatriz’s first attack failed.
So she tried shame.
Photos appeared online.
Alejandro leaving your house in work clothes. You walking beside him with grocery bags. Your mother’s street. The cracked paint near your door. The caption came from an anonymous account, but everyone knew the hand behind it.
“From heir to errand boy. Love is expensive.”
The comments were worse.
Some called you a climber.
Some called him pathetic.
Some said you had trapped him.
Others said rich boys always came crawling back once poverty stopped being romantic.
You deleted the app.
