The Storm

The Storm
Sofia’s POV

I told Leandro I’d wait.

That I’d stay put. Stay quiet. Stay safe.

But that promise felt thinner with each passing hour. Like it wasn’t made with real intention, just fear and desperation. His fear. My desperation.

Because truthfully, I was already unraveling.

The house was too still. Too neat. Too expensive. The walls echoed with a silence that wasn’t comforting, it was suffocating. And every time I glanced at my phone, hoping for a message, an update, anything, it stayed quiet.

Just like Leandro.

No texts. No calls.

It was like he’d vanished into the wind, taking all his answers with him.

So I did what I always do when I start to spiral.

I moved.

I cleaned the kitchen, even though it didn’t need it. Rearranged the pillows on the massive sectional couch. Tidied up the already pristine hallway. But it didn’t help. The silence only grew louder.

By the time the sun had moved halfway across the sky, I gave up pretending.

I sat down with my laptop at the dining table and pulled up the Veracruz branch profile from the Rossi Group internal database—Leandro had given me access weeks ago when I started helping him organize some files.

My name was not supposed to appear anywhere on that roster.

I knew that. He knew that.

So how the hell had it ended up on the list tied to an illegal operation?

I searched through employee entries. Event night bookings. Staffing forms.

Nothing.

Until I checked the digital logs for the night in question.

That’s when I saw it.

Sofia Flores – Guest List Entry. Manually Added. Timestamp: 11:42 PM.

I clicked into it, and a wave of cold washed over me.

It wasn’t a staff entry. Someone had added my name under a VIP guest reservation. But the rest of the section was blacked out like the file had been wiped or tampered with.

My hands were shaking as I stared at the screen.

I wasn’t there that night. I had no idea what happened at that event. And yet, there I was on paper. Official. Documented.

Framed.

I leaned back in my chair, a sick feeling building in my stomach.

Someone was doing this on purpose.

And if they went through the trouble of inserting me into a guest list from weeks ago, it meant they were playing the long game.

The worst part?

They weren’t just trying to get to Leandro.

They were trying to break me down, piece by piece.

My phone buzzed just then, and for a split second, hope sparked in my chest.

Unknown Number.

I hesitated before answering.

“Hello?”

“Sofia Flores?”

The voice on the other end was calm. Too calm.

“Yes, who’s this?”

“This is Detective Salinas, with the Mexico City Police Department. We’d like to speak with you regarding your involvement in the Veracruz incident. We have reason to believe your name is connected to the investigation.”

My mouth went dry. “I didn’t do anything.”

“We’re not saying you did, Miss Flores. But you were listed at the event. We’d appreciate your cooperation. We can either come to you or you can come down to the station. It’s your choice.”

I swallowed. “I’ll come.”

I didn’t want them showing up here. Not in Leandro’s space. Not with questions and assumptions.

The call ended, and just like that, my quiet morning exploded into something else.

I took a long breath and changed into something decent, black jeans, a clean blouse, a jacket. I tied my hair up. No makeup. No perfume. Just… plain. Neutral.

Walking out of Leandro’s house felt like walking into a storm barefoot. I didn’t tell him. I should have, maybe. But I also didn’t want him to stop me. Not this time.

I needed to face this.

Alone.

\---

The police station was smaller than I expected. Underwhelming, really. But the tension inside made up for it. It clung to the walls. To the quiet way people looked at you when you walked in. Like they were always trying to read you.

Detective Salinas was waiting for me—late 40s, graying at the temples, crisp shirt rolled to his elbows. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Miss Flores. Thanks for coming in.”

I sat across from him in a small, windowless room. There was a glass of water on the table that I didn’t touch.

“I already told whoever called me,” I said, “I wasn’t at that event.”

He nodded slowly. “We’re not accusing you of anything. Yet. But your name was listed in the guest records. That’s enough for us to ask questions.”

“I didn’t attend. I’ve never even been to the Veracruz branch.”

“Can you prove that?”

I blinked. “I mean… I was home. I wasn’t there. I didn’t even know there was an event.”

He clicked his pen. “No receipts? No messages or records placing you somewhere else?”

My throat tightened.

Of course not. Because I was probably binge-watching bad TV with a face mask on that night and texting Bri.

Convenient. But not helpful.

He leaned forward. “We’re not trying to pin this on you, Sofia. But whoever added your name to that list wanted it seen. That tells me one thing, you’re either a very unlucky bystander, or someone’s trying to drag you into the center of something bigger.”

I looked him in the eyes. “I want to know who.”

“So do we.”

After more questions, more notes, and zero answers, they let me go.

I stepped out into the warm air, dizzy from the weight of it all.

And that’s when I saw it.

Across the street. Leaning against a car.

Aurelio.

He was watching me. A cigarette between his fingers. A smirk on his face.

My blood ran cold.

He didn’t move. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even try to talk to me.

But he wanted me to see him.

And I did.

He was sending a direct message and I could read it.

Loud and clear.