Chapter Text
The lights at the Noir went out at 4:25.
Fina slipped into the back. Kicked off her heels. Went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Three years on that shift and she still wasn’t used to that 4 a.m. face. The dark circles. The hair that smelled like smoke even though she always tied it up tight.
She grabbed some cleanser, wiped off her makeup, then took a quick shower in the empty staff locker room. Got dressed fast. Black trousers. White shirt. Sensible heels. She wasn’t an idiot. Anything over five centimeters was just asking for trouble.
A little mascara. Just that. Then she looked at herself again.
Better. Almost like a real person.
She grabbed her keys from her jacket and stepped out the back door.
The January cold was sharp, clean. Madrid at that hour was almost quiet. Almost. Because Madrid never really sleeps. It just dozes. There’s always that low hum underneath everything.
Fina walked to her car, a beat-up Peugeot 206. Opened the trunk, tossed in her bag with her work clothes. Got in, started the engine, and headed toward the depot.
NobleDrive’s headquarters sat on a side street off Méndez Álvaro. Anonymous warehouse. White neon sign. Parking lot in the back where they kept the cars. She didn’t go there often. Only when they gave her high-end clients.
Raoul had quit the day before. Just like that. His rides had been reassigned in a rush. She’d gotten the early morning ones. Which, honestly, worked for her. She could finish at the club, drive for a couple of hours, then go home, sleep, and still keep up with her photography master’s.
That’s how she helped her family after her father got sick.
The guy on the phone, Rodrigo, had told her to pick up the Mercedes by 5:40.
It was 5:32.
Rodrigo was already outside. Cigarette in hand. Keys dangling from one finger.
“Valero.”
“Rodrigo.”
He handed over the keys without ceremony. “Gray E-Class. Third row. Full tank, clean, updated nav. Don’t scratch it.”
“I never scratch cars.”
“Don’t scratch it.”
She found it right away. Gray metallic. Quiet, still. The kind of car that knows exactly what it’s worth.
She opened the driver’s door and slid in. Dark leather interior. That deep clean smell. The steering wheel felt different from hers. Thicker. More precise. She adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the dashboard lights.
Turned the engine on.
Barely a sound.
---
The night before, Adela had been on the couch, blanket over her knees, TV volume too loud as always.
“Fina! Come look, it’s her, its Marta de la Reina!”
Fina had been in the kitchen, pouring coffee. She leaned in with the cup still in her hand.
On screen, a woman in a doctor’s coat, open just enough to reveal a red dress underneath. Stethoscope around her neck. Blonde hair falling in soft, controlled waves. But what stood out most were her eyes. Blue. Designed for that kind of lighting. Fixed on the camera in a frozen close-up, dramatic music underneath. She was arguing with someone. One of those TV arguments that aren’t really arguments. Just an excuse to look at each other longer.
“Look how beautiful she is,” Adela had said. “And that doctor’s coat suits her perfectly.”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“You’re picking her up tomorrow, right?”
“It’s a job.”
“Fina.” Pause. “Behave.”
“I always behave.”
“Don’t make that tired face you make when you’re tired.”
Fina had rolled her eyes, finished her coffee, and gotten ready to leave.
---
Calle de Velázquez, 84. Salamanca district. Of course. Cream-colored facades. Tall doorways. Polished intercoms.
Fina pulled up right in front of the building and turned off the radio.
5:48.
She lowered the window slightly. Cold air. Wet leaves. Almost silence. A stray cat crossed the sidewalk with that stiff, slightly ridiculous walk cats have. She watched it until it disappeared.
She stepped out of the car, leaned against the door, eyes on the entrance.
At 5:53, the door opened.
First a shoe. Dark ankle boot. Low heel. Then the coat. Long. Charcoal gray. A huge scarf wrapped around her up to her chin. Hat pulled down over her ears. Gloves. A large black bag on her shoulder.
And above all that, those eyes.
Blue. Clear. They went straight to the car. Calm. Maybe practiced. Maybe not.
Fina had been wrong. It wasn’t TV lighting that made them intense. In person, they hit harder. Enough to make your knees go weak. At least, that’s how she felt.
Fina opened the rear door.
“Good morning, Ms. de la Reina. I’m Fina Valero.”
Marta looked at her. Not a measuring look. More like taking note. Registering. Moving on.
“Good morning,” she said, and got in.
Fina closed the door and got behind the wheel.
For the first few minutes, nothing.
Fina drove. Calle de Serrano. Then north. Then the highway. Streets almost empty. A garbage truck. A parked patrol car with the lights off. A lone runner, breath turning to vapor.
In the rearview mirror, she saw Marta unbuttoning her coat. Slowly. Still wearing her gloves. Then the hat came off. Blonde hair fell over her shoulders. Effortless-looking. Which probably meant it wasn’t.
She took off the gloves. Unwrapped the scarf. Folded it neatly in her lap.
Then she looked up.
Into the mirror.
At night, under Madrid’s orange streetlights, her eyes turned amber. Darker. Unnameable. The kind of color that keeps you looking because you can’t quite define it. As the sky lightened, gray and flat, they turned clear again. Almost transparent. Almost cold. But not really.
On TV, they were beautiful.
In real life, they felt like trouble.
Fina looked away. Back to the road.
Get a grip, Valero.
“It’s cold,” Marta said. Her voice was lower than on TV. Less polished.
“Three degrees last night.”
“I heard it might snow this weekend.”
“In Madrid?” Fina shifted her hand on the wheel.
Marta looked out the window. “I like Madrid when it snows.”
Fina didn’t answer right away. She was overtaking a truck.
“That’s true for most cities, I think.”
Marta turned her head slightly toward her. As if she wasn’t used to people disagreeing.
Fina gave a small smile. Not unfriendly.
“Yes,” Marta said. “Probably.”
Silence again. Different this time.
“Where’s Raoul?”
Fina swallowed. Not even five minutes in and she already missed Raoul.
“He left. I got his morning routes.”
“I see. Why mornings?”
“I work nights at a club. This way I can do both.”
Marta didn’t ask anything else.
They kept driving.
When they reached the studios, there was a guard at the gate, a few crew members holding coffee, yellow light spilling out of the hangars.
Fina pulled up at the main entrance.
Marta grabbed her bag, wrapped the scarf back around her quickly, opened the door herself before Fina could move.
“No need.”
She stepped out. Stood there for a moment. Coat still open. Cold wind brushing her hair.
Then she turned toward the window.
“See you tomorrow, Fina.”
Fina was surprised she remembered her name.
“See you tomorrow.”
She watched her walk away. Straight posture. Steady shoulders. The bag swinging lightly. The glass door closed behind her.
Fina stayed there a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then she drove back.
Dropped off the car. Got back into her Peugeot. Headed home.
Carabanchel.
No elevator. Fourth floor.
She opened the door quietly so she wouldn’t wake her mother.
But Adela was already there.
“How did it go?”
“Good.”
“Did you see her?”
“Yes.”
“And? What’s she like?”
Fina hung the keys on the hook. Went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Didn’t take anything.
“Well?”
“She’s like she is on TV.”
It wasn’t true.
But it was easier.
Some mornings, easy answers are the only ones you can manage.
She made herself a herbal tea. Drank it standing by the window, looking out over the rooftops. Antennas. Terraces. The same pigeon doing its slow circle on the chimney across the street.
She thought about Marta de la Reina.
Left the cup in the sink. Went to bed.
Got under the covers.
Picked up her phone.
Searched ‘Marta de la Reina’ on Instagram. 5.3 million followers. Black and white profile picture. Perfect. Controlled. That sharp face. Those eyes that seemed to look from somewhere very specific even through a six-inch screen.
She started scrolling.
Sets. Crew. Behind-the-scenes laughter. Marta looking sexy in nothing but a doctor’s coat and glasses. Ads. Watch. Handbag. Face cream with the word “natural” repeated three times. Gala nights. Dresses. Awards. Smiles.
All of it beautiful.
All of it far from Carabanchel.
And then him.
Pelayo Olivares.
Actor. Producer. She didn’t read the rest. She was looking at the photos.
Dark hair. A jawline like it had been carved by someone obsessed with Greek statues. The kind of beauty that doesn’t apologize.
Dozens of posts together. Lisbon. Dinner. Birthday. Thirty-nine candles. His hand on her waist. Marta leaning on his shoulder, holding her shoes. Caption: “Another year older. The only way I survive it is with my husband holding me up when I can’t wear heels. Life is beautiful.”
She was laughing. Mouth open. Real.
In love.
Fina put the phone down.
Stared at the ceiling. That small crack in the corner. She knew it by heart.
Marta de la Reina probably didn’t even know places like Carabanchel existed.
She felt stupid.
Didn’t finish the thought.
Didn’t need to.
Marta lived in Salamanca. Her face was on billboards along the M-30. She went home to a man who looked like that.
Fina drove a broken Peugeot.
She turned the phone face down on the nightstand.
Looked at the ceiling again.
Then she thought about Marta’s eyes in the mirror. That orange streetlight shifting their color.
For a second, she had felt the urge to grab a camera. Not because she was a celebrity.
Because of those eyes.
God.
She closed her eyes.
Outside, Madrid was already, slowly, noisily, starting again.