Chapter 2 I Want To Apply

Chapter 2

Lía's POV

The meeting room was just as cold as the day before, but the tension had shifted. It bled into small gestures—Camila rubbing her hands as if trying to scrub away an invisible stain, or pacing back and forth to review files she already knew by heart. It was day two of interviews, and none of the profiles were a match. Every single one fell short of Jorge's relentless standards.

I'd spent hours watching candidates cycle in and out. They were fine on paper, all marked by a desperation I recognized in myself, and all dismissed with a single shake of his head. Not one had breached the invisible wall he so effortlessly kept up.

I set another file on the table, my movements entirely automatic.

"Next candidate in ten minutes," I announced, my voice as neutral as ever.

"Send her in now," Jorge ordered, not even looking up.

"She can't. We're still waiting on her medical reports," I said firmly. Part of my job was to curb his impatience, keeping everything from falling apart.

Camila shot me an exhausted, almost grateful look.

"Thank you, Lía. Without you, this would be total chaos."

I nodded, but my mind was elsewhere. I wasn't really in the room.

I could barely even stay on my feet. Since dawn, my body had felt twice its normal weight, like lead pumping through my veins. And it had nothing to do with the interviews.

The call from the hospital had come at three in the morning, the ring piercing the dead silence like a knife.

"Your mother has suffered another crisis. We need you here immediately."

I'd sprinted through the deserted streets, the cold biting at my skin, the streetlights blurring through my panic. When I arrived, my mother was gasping for air, clinging to the bed rails, to life, to me. Her eyes had been wide and pleading, begging for something she couldn't articulate. By some precarious miracle, the doctors managed to stabilize her. I was still trembling by the time dawn painted the hospital windows gray.

Now I was here, pouring water, organizing files, and listening to Jorge reject the tenth candidate of the day with a dry, clinical verdict.

"She's not ready," he declared, slapping the folder shut.

"Jorge, we can't rule everyone out," Camila pleaded, her voice cracking with exhaustion.

"I'm not trusting our last attempt to just anyone."

The word last hung in the air like a death sentence. Camila blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears threatening to spill. I understood them more than I wanted to admit. Their pain was a distorted mirror of my own.

But while they focused on their desperation, I could only think about mine. About the form I'd tucked into my bag the day before. About the contract I'd glimpsed out of the corner of my eye—the advance, the surgery, the possibility of my mother breathing without machines. The payout that could save her life.

Under the table, my hand clenched into a fist. My throat burned. Something snapped inside me, something I could no longer hold back.

"There's another candidate," I blurted out, shattering the silence.

They both turned to look at me.

"Who?" Jorge asked, his voice sharp as a blade.

I swallowed hard, my pulse pounding in my ears like a frantic drum.

"Me," I replied.

Camila's eyes widened in shock.

Jorge straightened up, as if he hadn't heard me correctly.

"Repeat that."

"I want to apply," I insisted, forcing my voice to stay steady even as I crumbled inside. "I meet every requirement. I don't have children, I'm perfectly healthy, and I know the process better than anyone."

The ensuing silence was brutal, almost tangible—a heavy weight pressing on my chest.

Jorge reacted first, his expression hardening into stone.

"No. You work for us. It's completely inappropriate. It would complicate everything—legally, ethically."

"I'm not talking about what's appropriate," I countered. "I'm talking about capability. I know exactly what this entails, and I know I need this just as much as you do."

Camila watched me with a mix of bewilderment and deep compassion, her hands trembling slightly.

"Lía... why would you do something like this? Why now?"

That was the crack. The exact moment I finally stopped holding myself together.

"My mother is out of time," I confessed, my voice breaking for the very first time. "She had another crisis last night. I can't afford her surgery. The only thing that can save her... is this. This payout."

Camila covered her mouth with a hand, stifling a gasp. Jorge frowned, processing the information.

"That doesn't guarantee anything," he objected, his tone entirely clinical. "It's a pregnancy. There are risks, obligations, emotional consequences. You can't treat this like a simple transaction."

"It's not simple," I admitted, the words tasting like poison. "It isn't simple for anyone in this room. But I know I can do it. And I know you need someone reliable. I can't lose her, Jorge. I just can't."

He held my gaze—intense, uncomfortable, and sharp as a scalpel. Evaluating me. Dissecting me.

"Do you have any idea what it entails to carry a child that isn't yours? To hand the baby over afterward, as if it were nothing?"

"I know it will hurt," I replied without hesitation. "But it hurts more to watch my mother die just because I don't have the money."

Camila looked at her husband, her voice soft but urgent.

"Jorge... please. Listen to her."

He didn't answer right away. He paced a few steps, thoughtful, weighing the risks as if they were mere figures on a balance sheet.

"I want the doctor to evaluate her today," he finally said. "If a single thing is off, the deal is off the table. No exceptions."

"I accept," I agreed, a wave of relief colliding with absolute terror.

Camila stood up and took my hands, her cold fingers wrapping around mine.

"Lía... thank you. I don't know if this is bravery or madness. But thank you."

I didn't know what to say. I only knew that, for the first time in days, I finally saw a way out. A fragile one, perhaps, but it was mine.