The screech of a woman’s voice ripped through Margaux’s fragile sleep, jolting her upright in bed. “How many times do I have to tell you that I need my coffee the moment I step into this villa? You even have the audacity to sleep in!” Wilma Mondragon roared, storming into Margaux’s room like a hurricane.

Margaux’s heart hammered against her ribs, a familiar fear seizing her. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she scrambled out of bed, her limbs stiff with exhaustion. Before she could even offer a greeting, Wilma’s disapproving glare sent her scurrying towards the kitchen.

She moved with practiced speed, her hands trembling slightly as she prepared the coffee, measuring each ingredient with painstaking precision. There could be no mistake, no imperfection. Only then, perhaps, would she avoid further wrath. “Here’s your coffee, Mom. I’m... sorry, I—”

Wilma cut her off, dismissing her with a wave of her hand without even glancing up. “Cut it off. Go out and clean the pool. My niece will come and wants to swim later.” Margaux’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t even washed her face or combed her hair, but she knew better than to argue. Her day, like every other, had already begun with a command.