Juan’s POV
The day my father died, the world forgot how to breathe.
I remember the phone call, the way my mother's hand trembled so hard that the phone slipped and hit the floor. For a second, she didn't cry. She just stood there, her eyes wide, her lips trembling like she was trying to hold her soul inside her mouth. Then she screamed--a sound that didn't sound human.
Dad was hit by a drunk driver. The officer said he died instantly. I wish I could believe that meant he didn't feel pain.
I was eighteen then, still figuring out what adulthood even meant. The moment that call ended, I stopped being a daughter and became something else--a quiet caretaker of broken pieces.
Our home turned silent. The smell of my father's cologne still lingered in the hallway for weeks, like he was just late coming home. But he never came. My mother, who once made Sunday breakfast while humming old love songs, stopped cooking,Stopped smiling, but started drinking just to mourn her beloved.But the bottles piled up faster than her excuses.
At first, I tried to understand. Grief makes people strange. I cleaned the empty bottles, I lied to the neighbors, I made sure the bills were paid--at least the ones I could manage. But the more I tried to hold us together, the faster everything fell apart.
Sometimes I'd lie in bed and whisper, "If you can hear me, Dad... just tell me what to do." The room never answered, only the sound of my mother crying in the next room.
By the time I turned twenty-one, our savings had dried up. Rent was late, and the fridge was a hollow echo. I knew I had to do something. So, I did what scared me most--applied for jobs.
My first rejection came with a polite smile and a "we'll call you." They never did. The second one didn't even bother pretending. By the tenth, I'd memorized disappointment. Still, I kept going.
Then, one morning, my phone buzzed. A company called "Elite Events & Designs" needed an assistant planner. I barely believed it when they said I got the job. I remember gripping my phone so tight my knuckles went white.
It wasn't glamorous--long hours, tight deadlines, endless instructions--but it paid. And for the first time in years, I felt useful again.
My mother didn't notice at first that I'd started working. She spent most of her days staring at the wall, mumbling apologies to someone who wasn't there. Then one night, I came home to find her collapsed on the kitchen floor, her pulse weak, surrounded by empty bottles and a half-empty container of pills.
The ambulance lights painted our house red and blue. The paramedics worked quickly, their words muffled through my panic. "Drug overdose. Possible liver damage."
At the hospital, she looked smaller--like grief had shrunk her. Her skin was pale, her lips dry. When she finally opened her eyes, she whispered, "Juan... I'm sorry."
Her voice cracked like glass. "I should've been your mother... I just didn't know how to live without him."
I held her hand, tears blurring everything. "You're here now. That's what matters."
We cried until the nurse gently asked me to let her rest. That night, I sat beside her bed and realized that forgiveness was heavier than anger--but somehow softer, too.
Days turned into weeks. I split my time between the hospital and work, pretending everything was fine while trying not to collapse inside. The bills started piling up again--treatment costs, prescriptions, endless receipts that looked like punishment.
One night, I sat at my small kitchen table with my head in my hands, staring at the total: $22,300. I didn't even make a fraction of that. I felt like a child again, powerless and scared.
The next morning, I looked at myself in the mirror--tired eyes, uncombed curls, the same girl, just a little more broken. "You can't give up now," I whispered. "You didn't come this far to drown."
I didn't know that fate was already listening.
Three days later, at the office, my manager approached me. "Juan, the CEO of Vale International is hosting a charity gala next month," she said, handing me a folder. "You've been appointed to join the team.Big opportunity. Don't mess it up."
I smiled weakly, unaware that this single assignment would change everything.
At that moment, I didn't know who Stanley Vale was.
I didn't know he'd been the quiet boy from high school who once shared his lunch with me when I'd forgotten mine.
And I definitely didn't know that he'd become the man who would turn my life upside down.
For now, I only knew this: I had to survive. I had to keep fighting. For my mother. For me. For my future.
Maybe one day, I would smile again.
