The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

“Levàntate!”

I sputtered as the water kept coming and jolted to a sitting position. Wiping my eyes, I opened them to see Magdalena standing at the side of the bed with a large mixing bowl in hand.

A shiver rocked my body, and I choked up some water.

“Are you crazy?” I gasped.

She dropped the bowl and ran a hand down her simple white uniform. “Sí. Pero no tan loca como tú.”

An ache pulsed behind my eyes. I was soaking wet and agitated, and my words came out harsher than I intended. “You know I don’t speak Spanish, Magdalena.”

“Porque eres demasiado tonta.” Because you are too dumb.

I knew that phrase only because she believed it was a great response for everything.

With a groan, I fell back onto the wet sheets. “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to hire you. You’re disrespectful, and, quite frankly, a bad maid.”

The sixty-year-old turned her nose up. “I am not a maid. I am a housekeeper.”

I was sure they were the same things, but I didn’t have the fight in me to argue with her.

“Then go housekeep somewhere and leave me alone.”

She smoothed a streak of gray hair back into place. Looked at her nails. “You have a party tonight, querida.”

“No,” I protested. “No party.”

“Sí—”

“I’m not going to a party, Magdalena,” I said, adding, “I don’t have anything to wear.” At least, nothing my soul won’t bleed through.

“Nothing respectable, no,” she agreed, eyeing me with irises as dark as chocolate. “It’s for cancer. Una cena benéfica.”

My stomach and heart dipped. “A benefit for cancer?”

“Sí. Antonio called and ordered for you to be r

eady by eight.”

Ordered?

Under different circumstances, such as a benefit for sea turtles—my second favorite charity—I would tell him to go fuck himself. But, the truth was, I loathed cancer, and my husband had a lot of money.

“Fine, I’ll go. But only to write a big check.”

I got to my feet and gave the empty chocolate box a kick as I walked past. It disappeared under the bed with the rest of my demons.

“Bueno. You have been lazy all week, señora. It is not attractive.”

Heading into the walk-in closet, I aimlessly pushed clothes on hangers aside. “Thank you, Magdalena,” I responded, “but there’s no one here I want to attract.”

She dug through my underwear drawer. “Because Antonio’s sleeping with Sydney?” A lacy thong hung from her finger. “What color do you want, querida? Red is good.”

The vise around my heart squeezed.

“I see whoever taught you to clean taught you sensitivity as well,” I said, adding, “Nude, please.”

“I do not clean.”