Wager of the Heart: The Rejected Mate

Elena Vasquez

The alarm on my cracked phone buzzed like a hornet trapped in a jar, yanking me from a dream where money grew on trees and bills paid themselves. I slapped it silent and groaned, my body aching from another night curled up on the lumpy couch in our two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment. At twenty-five, I shouldn't be living like this: sandwiched between my mom's raspy coughs from the bedroom and my little brother Marco's snores from the floor mat he called a bed. But life had other plans.

I swung my legs over the edge, bare feet hitting the cold linoleum. The kitchenette smelled like last night's arroz con gandules, reheated for the third time. Mom's medication bills were piling up faster than the eviction notices taped to our door. Dad would've fixed this. He always did, with his booming laugh and endless shifts at the restaurant. But cancer didn't care about hardworking men. It took him six months ago, and with him went La Isla Dorada, our family's Puerto Rican eatery in Queens. One bad loan from the wrong people, and poof, everything gone.

"Elena, mija?" Mom's voice croaked from behind the thin wall. "You got work today?"

I forced a smile she couldn't see. "Interview, Mamá. Big one. Don't worry."

She mumbled something about saints and coffee. I poured her a cup, black and strong, and set it by her bed before kissing her forehead. Her skin felt too warm, like always. The doctor's visits were another debt I couldn't touch.

Marco stirred as I grabbed my resume printed at the library because our printer died last year. "Sis, you look like crap," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. At sixteen, he was all gangly limbs and attitude, but his grin softened the jab.

"Thanks, kid. Watch Mom while I'm gone. No skipping school."

He saluted lazily. "Aye, aye, Captain Debt."

I ruffled his hair and bolted out the door, the stairwell echoing with distant arguments from neighbors. Brooklyn in late spring was alive; vendors hawking empanadas, kids dodging potholes on bikes, the subway rumble vibrating through my sneakers. But under the buzz, desperation clawed at me. Three temp jobs this month: filing for a lawyer who pinched my ass, waitressing at a dive where tips barely covered MetroCards, and data entry that paid in pennies. My bank app mocked me with a balance of $47.32. Eviction in two weeks. Creditors calling nonstop. I needed a miracle.

The subway spat me out in Midtown, where suits and skyscrapers made me feel like an intruder in my thrift-store blouse and skirt. The ad had caught my eye on a job board yesterday: Personal Assistant to CEO. Hamptons estate. $5,000/week + room/board. Discretion required. Five grand a week? That was insane. Enough to clear Mom's meds, Marco's tuition, and maybe breathe without panic attacks. I didn't care about discretion. I applied with a rushed email, attaching my resume from running the restaurant's books. Organization was my superpower.

The