The continuous rumble of the old bus engine vibrated against the windowpane, a rhythmic, monotonous sound that did nothing to soothe the ache in Alaysa's chest. Outside, the sun was setting over the rugged Mexican landscape, painting the horizon in bruised shades of purple and gold. With every mile that passed, her childhood village grew smaller, distant, and out of reach.
Leaving her parents was the hardest thing she had ever done. She could still see her mother, hands stained faintly with the scent of fresh soil and marigolds from her small flower shop, waving until the bus disappeared in a cloud of dust.
She could still feel her father's calloused hand—worn from long hours running their modest village grocery store—resting gently on her shoulder, giving her his silent, fiercely proud blessing.
They were comfortable in their own way—solidly middle class, perhaps touching the lower fringes of upper-middle on a good month. They never went hungry, but there was an invisible ceiling to their life. Every peso was accounted for, and there was absolutely no room for extra expenses. Alaysa knew that if her parents were ever to retire, if they were ever to breathe a sigh of relief without counting pennies, it was up to her.
At twenty-five, she was fully educated, holding a degree she had worked tirelessly for. Finding a job shouldn't be impossible, she told herself, clutching her canvas bag a little tighter. It can't be.
She caught her reflection in the dusty glass, offering herself a small, reassuring smile. Alaysa was, by all definitions, a living portrait of a classic princess, even if she lived in a modern world. Her skin carried a rich, flawless olive glow, framing a pair of striking, expressive almond eyes that held an innate warmth. Her most prized feature, however, was her hair—a cascading, dark mane that fell in soft waves all the way down to her waist.
Yet, living in Mexico, where the scorching heat and modern trends pushed most girls toward crop tops and short denim shorts, Alaysa chose a completely different path. Since she was a little girl, she had been enchanted by the timeless elegance of storybook princesses. Modesty wasn't a restriction for her; it was her armor and her aesthetic. She despised revealing clothing. Instead, her wardrobe was a collection of beautiful, knee-length frocks with elegant long sleeves, or high-waisted long skirts paired with modest tops. Even when she wore pants, they were always loose, baggy jeans that completely concealed her silhouette. On the rare occasions she wore shorts or shorter skirts outside, they were always paired with thick, knee-high stockings—a modern nod to regal, historical attire. She never exposed her body to the world, preferring to let her grace speak for itself.
When the bus finally squeaked to a halt in the heart of the bustling city, the sheer noise of the traffic almost overwhelmed her. But Alaysa was a girl with a mission.
Before her arrival, she had spent weeks hunting for an apartment within her tight budget. She managed to secure a small, low-rent place on the outskirts of the commercial district. It was tiny, almost microscopic compared to her village home, but as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, a sense of pride washed over her. It was perfect.
She had already transported a few essential pieces of furniture from her village house ahead of time. The bedroom held nothing but a simple, sturdy bed and a wooden cupboard to store her modest wardrobe. There was no dedicated dining room, but Alaysa's creative eye had transformed the main living space into a dual-purpose sanctuary. On one side sat a small, cozy sofa she had draped in a handmade knit blanket. On the other side stood a medium-sized wooden table paired neatly with two chairs. It was minimalist, clean, and undeniably homey.
After hours of unpacking, sweeping, and organizing her new haven until it smelled of lavender and clean linen, Alaysa finally collapsed onto her bed. She closed her eyes, the weight of the upcoming day settling on her chest.
Tomorrow was the interview.
The next morning, the city was engulfed in a cool, crisp fog. Alaysa stepped out of a yellow taxi, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She paid the driver, turned around, and looked up.
Towering into the clouds was a magnificent, glass-paneled skyscraper. Gleaming silver letters etched into the marble entrance read: SAN MARINO HOLDS.
YOU ARE READING
Ruthless Devotion
RomanceAlaysa is the definition of simplicity. Hailing from a quiet, humble village in Mexico, she leaves behind her middle-class roots and moves to the bustling city with a single goal: to secure a job and support her parents. She is innocent, hardworking...
