Page 58 of Fixer for the Billionaire

Quentin's gaze follows me as I lead him up the front steps and knock on the door. My heart races, half-hoping no one will answer.

But my mother opens the door, looking as disheveled as I remember. Her dark hair, now streaked with gray, hangs in a messy ponytail, and she has dark circles under her eyes.

She looks between me and Quentin, confusion clear on her face.

"Mamá,” I say, my voice shaking.

Her eyes widen in shock as she recognizes me. It takes a moment for her to find her words.

"Carmina? What are you doing here?"

Quentin steps forward, his hand on my back. "We were in the neighborhood," he says firmly. "And your daughter thought it would be a good idea to drop by."

My mother's eyes flicker to him, taking in his tall, muscular build and stern expression. Not even bothering to ask who Quentin is, she steps aside, allowing us to enter the house.

Rumpled magazine in hand, she leads us to the living room, which is surprisingly clean compared to the rest of the house.

I remember when my mother used to keep this place spotless, but now it's clear she no longer cares.

Quentin takes in every detail as we sit on the faded couch. I'm waiting for shock and disgust to show on his face, but it never does. Instead, he simply takes my hand and squeezes it reassuringly.

"Mamá, this is Quentin," I say, wiping sweat from my hands on my dress. "He's a... friend from work."

"Hello, Quentin," she says flatly, assessing him.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Sanchez," Quentin replies politely.

"It's Herrera, actually. Sanchez is her father's last name," she scoffs. "The bastard."

The tension thickens, and I cringe at my mom's words. Quentin must sense it too because he quickly changes the subject.

"So, Carmina tells me you used to be a nurse," he says, gesturing towards the framed degree on the wall.

My mother's face softens slightly. "Yes, I did. But that was a long time ago."

"Why did you stop?" he continues.

Her eyes cloud over briefly before she answers. "Life happened, and things didn't turn out the way I thought they would." She shrugs, brushing off the topic.

I see the sadness in her eyes, and I know this is a sensitive subject. But Quentin persists.

"Did you enjoy being a nurse?" he asks sincerely.

Her demeanor changes as she talks about her former career, her eyes lighting up with passion. It's like I'm seeing a different side of her.

"I loved it," she says with a smile. "Helping people, making a difference—it was great."

As she talks, her walls start to come down, and I feel a sense of relief wash over me. Maybe Quentin is the key to unlocking my mother's true self.

"So why did you give it up?" he persists.

My mom takes a deep breath before answering. "I had to take care of my family. The men I married never held down jobs or supported us, so I worked odd jobs to make ends meet." She looks over at me. "And then when your father left..." She trails off, and I see the pain in her eyes.

Quentin nods. "I'm sorry for bringing up painful memories," he says sincerely.

"It's alright," my mom replies, her sad tone taking on an edge. "It just doesn't help when your kids don't appreciate the sacrifices you made for them."

And there it is. The old mantra.

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