Chapter 10 - THE WINDOW ON THE THIRD FLOOR
The letter arrived on a Monday morning. No logo. No return address. Only Marina's name
written by hand. She opened it at the workshop between supplier invoices and a box of merino
samples. Inside was a photocopy of an old Alcázar payroll sheet and a short message.
THEY DID IT BEFORE YOU. ASK ABOUT CASA VERDE. Marina read the line three times. Then she
called Adrian. He answered on the second ring. “I thought you hated phone calls.” “This one
matters.”
She photographed the document and sent it. Adrian called back four minutes later. “Where did
you get this?” “Anonymous letter.” “Do not throw away the envelope.” “I am not stupid.” “I
did not say—”
“You were going to.” “I was thinking it carefully.” The payroll sheet was dated eight years
before Marina had joined Alcázar. The name at the top belonged to a worker neither of them
recognized.
The document showed the same pattern: one wage allocated, a lower amount transferred,
invented deductions under vague categories. Casa Verde turned out to be a former staffing
company acquired by Alcázar's predecessor. The discovery suggested the fraud might predate
Beatriz's involvement.
Or at least the method did. Adrian turned the letter over to investigators. The old records
were incomplete, but enough survived to justify a new review. Marina felt anger rise again.
Not the same anger as before.
This one was colder. “What if there are more people?” “There probably are,” Adrian said.
“Then the five-year repayment was not enough.” “No.” “You told everyone it was five years.”
“That is what the evidence showed at the time.”
She looked at him across the workshop office. “I know. I am not blaming you.” “That is new.”
“Do not get used to it.” He smiled. The investigation expanded. Some former workers had
moved. Some had died. Some could not be located.
Velasco Holdings created a restitution fund for verified claims connected to earlier
contracts. Critics called it damage control. Adrian accepted the criticism. Marina did not
care what it was called as long as the money reached people.
Then something happened that brought the story back to where it had begun. One rainy
evening, Marina returned to her old neighborhood to visit her mother. Sofia, now three,
slept in the back seat.
Marina parked across from the apartment building where she had lived during that desperate
year. The third-floor window was dark. For a moment she saw herself there anyway. Bent over
the little table. Hands moving fast. Formula can nearly empty. Baby sleeping in a makeshift
bassinet.
She remembered the pharmacy light. The white paper bag. The twenty-eight euros in her hand.
A car pulled up behind her. Adrian stepped out. Marina stared through the rain. “You
followed me?” “No. Mateo gave me the wrong address for a meeting nearby.”
“That is the worst lie you have ever told.” He opened the passenger door and got in. They
sat in silence for a moment. Adrian looked up at the third-floor window. “That one?” “Yes.”
“I was parked almost here.” Marina turned sharply. “What?” He realized too late that he had
never told her. “The night I heard your phone call, I asked Mateo for your address.” “You
came here?”
“Yes.” “You watched me?” “From across the street.” Her eyes widened. “That is deeply
strange.” “I know.” “You followed me to the pharmacy?” “Yes.” “Adrian.” “I needed to
understand why the payroll record said paid.”
“You could have asked.” “I did not know if the problem was personal or systemic.” Marina
stared at him for several seconds. Then she began laughing. Not softly. Full, incredulous
laughter. Adrian looked offended.
“What?” “You sat in a millionaire's car spying on me buying formula.” “When you say it like
that—” “How else should I say it?” He started laughing too. The tension broke. Outside, rain
slid down the windshield.
Sofia stirred in the back seat, then settled again. Marina looked at the apartment window.
“I hated that place.” “You also built a company there.” “I built survival there.” “Same
materials.” “Different architecture.” Adrian nodded.
They sat quietly. Eventually Marina said, “Do you know what is strange?” “What?” “I used to
think if I had enough money, I would never feel afraid again.” “And?” “I was wrong.” Adrian
looked at her.
“Of course you were.” She frowned. “That sounded rude.” “It was agreement.” Marina smiled.
“The fear changed. Now I worry about payroll for eight employees, supplier contracts, taxes,
Sofia's school, whether I am growing too fast.”
“That is adulthood.” “That is a scam.” “Also true.” The rain weakened. Across the street,
the third-floor light came on. A young woman appeared at the window holding a baby. Marina
froze. The woman bounced the child gently, then disappeared from view.
It meant nothing. Probably. Just another mother. Another evening. Another ordinary struggle.
But Marina felt the old number move through her like a pulse. Twenty-eight. She opened her
phone and transferred money into VEINTIOCHO's employee emergency fund, a program she had
created months earlier but rarely used.
Adrian noticed. “What are you doing?” “Making sure no one who works for me ever has to wait
until midnight to buy formula.” He did not answer. The next morning, new information arrived
from investigators.
The Casa Verde records were real. At least fourteen former workers might be owed money.
Possibly more. The story was opening again. But this time Marina did not feel trapped by it.
She had learned something important.
Justice was not a clean ending. It was maintenance. Policies had to be checked. Accounts had
to be questioned. Power had to be watched. Small numbers had to be respected. Three months
later, VEINTIOCHO launched its first full retail collection.
The opening took place at the workshop, not a luxury hotel. Sofia cut the ribbon with
children's scissors. Elena cried. Pilar complained that everyone was crying. Mateo brought
pastries. Adrian stood near the back.
On the wall behind the display hung a framed photograph. Not of Marina. Not of Adrian. A
simple image of a handwritten price tag: €28 Below it were the words: SMALL TO SOMEONE.
EVERYTHING TO SOMEONE ELSE.
Marina looked around the room. Workers. Customers. Families. Children. Friends. She thought
about the call to her mother that had once felt like the lowest point of her life. It had
not been an ending.
It had been a door. Later, after everyone left, Marina locked the workshop and carried
sleepy Sofia toward the car. Adrian was still outside. “Good night,” he said. Marina nodded.
Then her phone buzzed.
An unknown number. A message. I WORKED FOR CASA VERDE IN 2016. I THINK THEY TOOK MONEY FROM
ME TOO. Marina stared at the screen. Adrian saw her expression. “What is it?” She looked up.
For a second, the old fear returned. Then something stronger replaced it. Purpose. Marina
handed him the phone. “Looks like twenty-eight is not finished with us.” Adrian read the
message. The city lights reflected across the wet pavement.
Somewhere in Madrid, another worker had finally decided to ask. Marina took Sofia's hand.
Adrian opened his phone. And together they walked back toward the workshop lights, toward
May you like
another set of records, another name, another small number waiting to be taken seriously.
The ending was happy. The work was not over.
