Chapter 37
Elara
The cold October air hit my face as I stepped onto Blackwood Estate's marble steps, wheeling my suitcase behind me. Behind me, Mamá clutched her worn luggage with trembling hands, her eyes darting back toward the massive oak doors like a drowning woman watching the shore recede.
"Elara," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Are we really—"
"Yes." I didn't turn around. Couldn't. If I looked back at that Gothic monstrosity of a house one more time, I might lose my nerve.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. The number on the screen read "Rosa - Iron District Housing."
I pressed the green button, expecting a businesslike confirmation.
Instead, a woman's voice exploded through the speaker—thick Dominican accent, genuine panic bleeding through every word: "Elara?! Finally! I've been calling you for two days! Your old phone—it just kept ringing! I thought something terrible happened to you. Are you okay?"
My throat closed up.
Two days ago, I'd been dodging Victoria's hired thugs in an alley. Before that—
This was the first time in weeks someone had asked if I was okay and meant it.
Not "are you going to embarrass the family," not "are you causing trouble again." Just... concern. Real, human concern.
"I'm sorry, Rosa." I forced my voice steady, turning away from Mamá so she wouldn't see the tears threatening to spill. "Things have been... complicated. But I need that room now. The one in the Iron District. Is it still available? I need to bring my mother too."
"Ay, of course it's still there!" Rosa's tone shifted instantly—warm, protective, the kind of voice that could wrap you in a blanket and make you feel safe. "I've been holding it for you, mija. Didn't rent it to anyone else."
I froze. "You... you held it? But I didn't pay a deposit."
"Deposit?" She laughed—soft, knowing. "Elara, I can hear it in your voice. You're a good kid who got into some trouble. You need a place that's yours, right? Not someone else's charity. Not somewhere you have to earn your keep."
The tears came then, hot and humiliating. I pressed my palm against my eyes, shoulders shaking.
"Hey, hey." Rosa's voice gentled. "No crying, okay? Save that for when you're safe. Now tell me—where are you? My son Carlos can pick you up. You have a lot of luggage?"
"We're near Blackwood Estate in—" I glanced at the wrought-iron gates, the hedge maze, the fountain with its stone angels. Everything here cost more than most people earned in a year. "But we can take a cab. I don't want to trouble—"
"No, no, no." Rosa cut me off. "You save your money, girl. Carlos is already in Manhattan making deliveries. He'll be there in thirty minutes. Just stay put."
Before I could argue, she continued, her voice shifting to practical: "Rent is $750 a month, utilities included. You'll share the kitchen, living room, and bathroom with two other tenants—art school students, very quiet. And I made pasteles yesterday. You'll love them."
Seven hundred fifty dollars. I did the math in my head—two hundred thousand from the checks, minus rent, food, school supplies. If I was careful, I could make it stretch until college. Maybe longer.
"Okay." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "We'll wait for Carlos."
"Perfecto. See you soon."
The line went dead.
I turned to find Mamá staring at me with wide, confused eyes. "You... you already planned this? Before today?"
"Yes, Mamá." I met her gaze evenly. "I knew we couldn't stay at Blackwood much longer. So I made arrangements."
Her face crumpled—not with sadness, but with something worse. Realization. That her daughter had been three steps ahead of her this whole time, while she'd still been clutching at the fantasy of being accepted by the Vanes.
"How long?" she whispered. "How long have you been planning to leave?"
I thought of the first morning after I'd woken up from rebirth. The moment I'd decided I wouldn't make the same mistakes twice.
"Since the day I stopped loving Julian."
---
Twenty minutes later, a battered white delivery van pulled up to the estate gates. The driver—a Latino man in his thirties wearing a baseball cap and work clothes—leaned out the window with a grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"You Elara and Maria? I'm Carlos. Ma sent me to get you." He hopped out, already reaching for our suitcases. "Throw these in the back. We'll have you home in no time."
Home.
The word hit me like a physical thing. I'd lived at Blackwood Estate for years, but I'd never once thought of it as home.
Mamá's eyes filled with tears again as Carlos effortlessly lifted her heavy suitcase. At Blackwood, the staff had watched her struggle with luggage, never offering to help. She was the cleaning woman. Below them.
"Thank you," I managed.
Carlos's smile widened. "No problem. Ma says you're gonna be studying at St. Valerius? That's a fancy school. You must be wicked smart."
I climbed into the van's passenger seat. "I just... got lucky."
Carlos glanced at me in the rearview mirror as he pulled away from Blackwood's gates. Something flickered in his expression—understanding, maybe. Like he'd heard that kind of self-deprecation before and knew what it really meant.
"Iron District's a good place," he said instead. "Looks rough around the edges, but the neighbors watch out for each other. You need anything, you ask Ma. She knows everybody."
The van merged onto the highway. Through the windshield, I watched Manhattan's skyline grow larger, its glass towers reflecting the late afternoon sun. Behind us, Blackwood Estate disappeared into the distance—a Gothic shadow against the Connecticut trees.
I didn't look back.
---
An hour later, Carlos pulled up outside a four-story red brick building in the Bronx. The neighborhood was nothing like the manicured lawns and marble fountains of Blackwood. Here, graffiti covered the walls—some of it crude tags, some of it genuine art. Rusted fire escapes zigzagged up building facades. A faded metal sign hung above the entrance: "IRON DISTRICT ARTIST COLLECTIVE."
"Home sweet home," Carlos announced. "Second floor, left unit."
Rosa was already waiting outside, a round woman in her fifties wearing a bright floral apron. The moment I stepped out of the van, she swept me into a hug that smelled like garlic and plantains and safety.
"Elara, you're here!" She pulled back, cupping my face in her hands. Her eyes were dark and knowing and kind. "And you must be Maria. Welcome, welcome. Come on, let's get you settled."
Between Rosa and Carlos, our luggage practically floated up the stairs. No elevator—Rosa apologized for that—but the climb was manageable. The whole time, she kept up a steady stream of chatter about the building, the neighbors, the best bodega on the corner.
Mamá stayed silent, gripping the stair railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
At the second-floor landing, Rosa unlocked a door and pushed it open. "Here we are!"