That was fine. I hadn’t looked at him either.
Outside, Chicago glittered. It always did at night—all that light bouncing off glass and water, making the city look cleaner and kinder than it actually was. I used to love this view. Used to press my face against the window on nights like this when I was small, when car rides meant we were going somewhere as a family, when my mother was still alive and the world still had that particular softness that mothers carry with them without knowing it.
That was a long time ago.
I pressed my fingertip to the cold glass and said nothing.
The fundraiser was exactly what I’d known it would be.
Everything about the event was flawless and expensive in a way that felt deliberate. Each plate probably cost more than someone’s monthly salary, and the guests moved like they had rehearsed it—smiling, laughing, and steering conversations with the effortless control of people who had grown up in rooms like this.
Elegant lights dripped from the ceiling in cascading warmth.
The marble floor reflected everything—the chandeliers, the gowns, the practiced smiles—until the whole room felt like standing inside a mirror that had been designed to flatter.
I’d been to dozens of these.
I was still not good at them.
I followed my father through the crowd with the smile I’d learned specifically for occasions like this—present, pleasant, and revealing absolutely nothing. He moved like he considered every room his natural habitat, greeting people by name, clasping hands, placing compliments carefully, like he understood their impact.
I stayed half a step behind him.
That was my position in this world. Always half a step behind.
You’ll understand when you’re older,mija.That’s what he used to say, back when I still argued about it. Back when I thought understanding was something he was offering rather than something he was withholding.
I understood now.
I just didn’t agree.
***
“Tomas.”
The man who said it was tall, with silver threaded through his hair and a navy suit that marked him as someone used to being taken seriously. His face was composed, his blue eyes observant and unreadable, and his smile came and went without ever quite reaching them.
“Maverick.” My father extended his hand, and the two of them gripped with the particular enthusiasm of men who trusted each other exactly as far as they needed to.
Maverick Wiese. I knew the name. Everyone in Chicago knew the name. The kind of politician who appeared at charity galas and ribbon cuttings and quoted things about community and integrity while standing in rooms that cost six figures to rent. The kind of man who was charming in public and something else entirely in private.
My father had called himan old friend.
I’d learned to be careful with that phrase. In Tomas Alvarez’s vocabulary,friendwas a word that meantuseful.
“And this must be Sofia.” Maverick turned to me, and his smile widened by exactly the right degree. Not too much. Not too little. Calibrated.
“It is,” I said, and smiled back with equal precision.
“Tomas talks about you constantly.” A pause. “The doctor.”
“Medical student,” I corrected, before I could stop myself.
Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or the recognition of resistance in a place he hadn’t expected it.
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Come. There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Nico Calderon materialized out of the crowd the way people do at these events—as if they had been positioned there in advance, as if the meeting was accidental, as if the two fathers standing slightly behind us with drinks in their hands and matching expressions of casual interest weren’t orchestrating the entire thing from approximately three feet away.