Her eyes linger—too long, too recklessly—on someone she never imagined she’d notice.

A cleaner at the garden club. Newly hired. Nothing special.

But my god.

She can’t seem to pry her gaze away. It’s absurd, really—laughable. Rita Castillo, drawn to a woman? A woman beneath her station? The thought alone should make her recoil, yet she doesn’t.

Instead, she finds herself dropping things. Purposely. Just to be near her. It’s not just lust—no, that would be easy. Manageable. It’s this infernal feeling in the pit of her stomach, this flutter she hasn’t endured since she was a teenage girl with foolish dreams.

And damn it all—she loves the feeling.

---

This isn’t her. This cannot be her.

Rita Castillo is feared. Respected. Ruthless.

She is not some pathetic, lovesick woman longing for another—especially one whose hands are calloused from labor.

Lower class. The words alone taste bitter, yet they make everything so much worse. The scandal, the disgrace, the impossibility of it all.

A woman. This woman. In this time period. Rita is doomed.

---

And yet—she doesn’t stop. Can’t stop.

That is how she ends up kneeling beside her now, gathering what was dropped. Helping. An act so unnatural it should disgust her.

But it doesn’t.

Rita Castillo is not herself—not anymore. Not since her.

“There,” she whispers as her fingers brush away the last remnants of the spill. She stands, fixes her dress with cool precision, but her composure is just for show.

Their eyes meet.

Why can’t I have her…