"Hey, Gabriella!" Ortega called as he stepped out of the elevator, his voice carrying a blend of warmth and authority. Gabriella halted and turned to see who had called her.
She caught sight of Ortega and arched a brow. He looked dashing in his three-piece suit—the same one he wore yesterday. His bag was slung over his shoulder, his signature curly perm and sun-kissed complexion adding to his charm.
Even his posture seemed more confident today, judging by the way his shoulders swung as he walked, his deep black eyes smizing as they locked on her.
"Morning," he greeted, smiling as he tugged at his bag handle.
The gesture was casual, almost too casual for the meticulous image he usually maintained. Gabriella noticed the subtle shine on his polished shoes and the way his suit seemed perfectly tailored to accentuate his athletic build.
As he approached, Gabriella prepared to exchange the usual pleasantries. But as Ortega got closer, something unexpected caught her eye.
His hand, previously obscured by his body, came into full view, revealing a delicate flower pot cradled within it.
The pot was small, just enough to hold a single blooming orchid with vibrant petals spreading wide. The sight of the flower pot contrasted sharply with his otherwise sleek and businesslike demeanor.
Gabriella's eyes widened in surprise, her gaze shifting from the ornate pot to Ortega's face, where a sheepish smile played at the corners of his lips.
"This isn't for you," Ortega said the moment he noticed her questioning gaze.
Gabriella looked sharp as hell in her expensive-looking designer coat. He could tell from the sheen of the leather that it was high-quality. The fluffy woollen collars and sleeve ends enhanced the style as well, giving her an uncanny resemblance to a certain, well-known, reality tv personality.
"What? I wasn't—ugh!—never mind..." Gabriella shook her head, her expression becoming stoic. "Have you seen the others?"
"Actually, I just arrived," Ortega replied. Raising the flower pot, he added, "If you don't mind, I'd like to pay doc a visit."
"Go," she waved him off. "But I want to see you at the makeup studio by nine. Real work begins then. Miss it at your own risk."
Ortega nodded and made his way past Gabriella to the clinic, which was situated down the hallway. For some reason, there were fewer ladies stationed along the line compared to the last time he had walked through this floor.
By a sharp turn to the left, he noticed a cleaning lady and greeted her as soon as he saw her.
A wet floor sign strategically placed at the forefront of the slick, slippery marble indicated that she was busy.
Ortega halted, muttering to himself, "Bad timing." Indeed it was.
He was stuck at a dead end with no way forward—the floors were still very wet. Crossing over now might not only be unsafe for him but also seem like a brazen offense to the middle-aged woman dressed in white, judging by the frown etched on her face as she mopped the ground vigorously, as if angry at the floors.
"Maybe she's nice but doesn't like to show it," Ortega thought, remaining optimistic as always.
"Hi... Madame!"
"What?" she snarled, sharply facing him with an intimidating scowl.
Undeterred, Ortega requested, "I would like to cross over, please."
His calm, polite tone combined with a warm smile made him very appealing.
He relaxed his shoulders, fingers still clasped around the edges of the flower pot he was carrying. "It's urgent," he said, earning an even deeper scowl from the cleaning lady.
"Wait," came the heavy-handed reply.
Her rich Mexican accent almost made it sound like a warning. She turned her focus back to her work, not wanting to spare him another glance.
Ortega wasn't the least bit offended by the lady's lack of compromise as he understood her intentions. The day had hardly begun, thus, now was the most appropriate time to clean.
When he checked his wristwatch, however, he almost panicked. It was half past eight, barely thirty minutes left before the studio meeting at nine, and he was yet to hand his "present" to Sylvia.
"I'll tiptoe. My shoes don't stain," he suggested, pointing at his shiny black Hush Puppies for emphasis.
She ignored him.
Ortega bit his bottom lip. "I have an appointment with the doctor," he tried again, this time with a hint of urgency.
On hearing this, the cleaning lady slowly raised her head to face him once more. Her gray eyes narrowed at him as she squeezed the mop into the bucket.
Ortega gulped, observing as her veins bulged threateningly under the tanned skin of her thick forearms. He couldn't help but wonder if she was a bodybuilder or if she had once enlisted in the army.
She then stood erect, studying him with a serious expression. Suddenly, Ortega saw something flash in her eyes—a flicker of recognition, maybe—as if something had finally dawned on her. With wide eyes, she spoke.
"You're the epileptic patient from yesterday?"
"Yes," Ortega winced. "So, can I?"
The middle-aged woman looked at him incredulously, her current demeanor a stark contrast to her earlier disposition.
Ortega was all too familiar with what was about to happen, and he didn't like it one bit. He gestured to the wet floor sign, his eyes suggesting a reply.
As if jolted by an electric current, the cleaning lady shook her head and hurriedly dried a path for him to pass through. She gave him the go signal when she finished, and Ortega thanked her.
As he walked carefully on the dried path, he could feel the woman's eyes boring into him.
Her gaze was intense with great pity.
"Hey," she called out to him with a voice surprisingly gentle.
"Yes?" Ortega turned to face her, inwardly kicking himself for painting a false reputation of traumatic illness.
"Don't give up hope." She said, her voice trembling as tears gathered in her eyes. "Te mando muchas fuerzas para que te mejores."
She placed a palm on his shoulder and Ortega could only look down as his chest rose with annoyance.
"Stay strong!" she urged, mistaking his irritation for despair.
"I will." Ortega nodded, already playing along. He pursed his lips, turned, and continued on his way, leaving behind a teary-eyed middle-aged Mexican lady.
"Cuídate mucho," she called after him as he walked away.