Vengeance From The Past

Camila's Pov

The city felt different now. Bigger. Colder. Like it had grown overnight and swallowed me whole. I walked through the streets with my CV clutched to my chest like a shield, moving from restaurant to restaurant, kitchen to kitchen, wearing a smile I didn’t feel.

"I'm looking for a line cook position," I would say, over and over again. "I have five years of experience, graduated top of my class, and—"

"Sorry," they would interrupt. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes not. "We're not hiring."

Sometimes they didn't even bother to pretend.

One manager squinted at my name on the paper and said, "Wait... Camila Torres? From Casa Estrella?"

I nodded slowly. Hopeful.

He handed the paper back without a word and turned away.

Another place, a quaint little bistro near the university, let me into the kitchen for a trial.

I was halfway through prepping a plate of pescado con crema when the head chef came in, phone in hand, and said, "You didn’t tell me about the viral video."

"What video?"

He turned the screen to me. There I was. Grainy security footage of Leonel Castillo spitting out my dish. The headline read: "Mafia Boss Publicly Humiliates Chef at Casa Estrella."

"It wasn’t my fault," I said, breath catching. "Someone tampered with my dish."

"He said it tasted like sewage," the chef said flatly. "Sorry, Camila. We can't take a risk."

I walked out with my pride bleeding, my heart cracking wider with every rejection.

Even the little diners that had once welcomed me with warm smiles now closed their doors before I could knock.

People used to praise my hands for their magic. Now, they only see the curse that clings to my name.

I spent my days wandering with sore feet and an empty stomach, crashing at the hostel each night, often skipping meals just to make the little money I had last a bit longer."

The phone never stopped buzzing.

> Mami: Please come home. I can't sleep. I know I hurt you. I'm sorry.

> Emilio: Just one chance, mi amor. Please. Let's talk.

I didn’t respond. Not even when Mami called late at night and left voicemails with a choked voice. Not when Emilio texted me pictures of us together, saying, "Remember this day? We were happy. We can be again."

I deleted the photos. But the memories wouldn’t go.

One rainy afternoon, I sat in a small café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, sipping lukewarm coffee and nursing a half-eaten concha. The storm outside had turned the streets into rivers, and the light from the window cast a gray gloom over everything.

I stared at the list of restaurant names. Only three remained unchecked. I was running out of options—out of hope

The bell above the café door jingled. I didn’t look up.

"Camila."

My head snapped up.

Emilio.

He was soaked, rain plastering his shirt to his chest. His eyes were wide and desperate, like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair, once neatly combed back, was a mess.

He looked like a man unraveling.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, my voice cold.

"I’ve been looking everywhere for you," he said, stepping closer.

I stood up, ready to leave, but he blocked my way.

"Please, just five minutes. That’s all I ask."

I looked around. The café was nearly empty. Just an old couple in the corner and the barista, who was pretending not to eavesdrop.

I crossed my arms. "Five minutes."

He exhaled in relief. "Camila, I don’t even know how to explain what happened. I made a mistake. A horrible, stupid mistake. I wasn’t thinking."

“You weren't thinking? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You were using everything but not your brain. Tell me, did your brilliant mind forget to notice that the woman in your bed was my mother?! Do you take me for a fool?”

"I didn’t plan it. It just... happened. And after it did, I felt sick. I still do. I don’t love her. I love you."

"Stop," I said, holding up a hand. "Don’t you dare say you love me."

"I do! I never stopped. Every moment since that night, I’ve been dying inside. I can't eat, can't sleep. I need you back, Camila. I want to fix this. I’ll do anything."

My throat tightened, but I held my ground. "The only thing you need to do is walk out that door and never come near me again, because the next time you cross my path— I won't hesitate to give you a hot slap on that your disgusting cheek”

His eyes shimmered. "You don't mean that."

"I do. I meant it the moment I saw you in my mother’s bed, oh wait I meant Teresa's bed"

He stepped closer again, reaching for my arm. "Please. Camila, por favor."

I yanked my arm back, but he held tighter. "Let me go, get your filthy hands off me now."

"Not until you hear me out. Just give me a—"

Smack!

The sound echoed in the small café.

His head jerked to the side, hand dropping from my arm.

My hand stung, but I didn’t flinch.

The barista gasped.

Emilio slowly turned back to face me, one hand on his cheek. Shock written all over his face.

"Well,I guess the slap won't be for later again. Don’t ever touch me again," I said, my voice steady. "We are done. Forever. You and her deserve each other."

I stepped around him and walked out into the rain, letting it soak through my clothes, through my skin. I didn't care.

It felt cleansing.

Freeing.

I felt satisfied.

I walked until my legs gave out, sitting under an awning, hugging my bag. Rainwater dripped from my hair, but I felt lighter than I had in weeks.

No more running.

No more pretending.

They had broken me.

But I wasn’t going to let them keep me broken.

That night, back at the hostel, I stared at the ceiling again.

One rejection after another.

A reputation ruined.

A heart shattered.

But deep inside, something hardened. Not in a cruel way. In a determined one.

If the kitchens of Mexico City wouldn’t take me, I’d find another way. I still had my knives. My skill. My passion.

Maybe I’d start something small. Street food. Delivery meals. Pop-up dinners. Anything to remind people who I was. What I could do.