"Maria, Maria!"
The shout cut through the quiet countryside, loud and full of urgency. A middle-aged woman had just stepped down from a parked car on the dirt road, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the fields around her. She was waving one hand in the air while the other struggled to keep hold of a heavy load pressed against her side. Her movements were hurried, almost clumsy, as if the weight was far more than she had expected, yet she kept calling out anyway, her voice warm and familiar, echoing across the open space.
Two girls immediately began moving toward her, quickening their pace as soon as they saw her struggling. Gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they crossed the short distance. Olivia, one of the girls, glanced sideways at her best friend while still walking forward, confusion flickering across her face as she asked, "Maria?"
Without turning to look at her, the second girl answered calmly, already focused on reaching the woman. "Yes. It's the name my aunt gave me," she said, her tone casual, almost dismissive. "She's the only one who actually calls me that, though."
As soon as she reached the car, Aina stepped in close to the woman, reaching out without hesitation. "Let me help you, Aunt Bella," she said, taking part of the load into her arms.
Isabella, her aunt, tightened her grip for a moment before letting Aina take some of the weight. "Careful," she warned, her voice firm but affectionate. "It's heavy."
Olivia hurried over as well, lifting her hands instinctively. "Let me help you," she offered.
Aina adjusted the load against her body and shook her head lightly. "Don't worry, I'm fine," she said, already turning away. With steady steps, she began carrying the bag toward the house, her posture confident despite the weight, disappearing inside without slowing down.
Olivia remained where she was, standing by the car and watching Aina carry the load inside. She barely had time to process what she had just seen before a voice sounded behind her, calm and curious.
"Hello," the woman said. "You must be Olivia."
So this is her?
So that's his mom.
The thoughts came uninvited as Olivia turned around. The two women stood facing each other now, quietly taking each other in. There was a brief, awkward pause as they both seemed to assess one another—posture, expression, presence—until Olivia suddenly realized she was staring and that a question had been asked.
She straightened instantly, heat rushing to her face. "Yes, ma'am, I'm Olivia," she replied quickly, her voice polite and a little nervous.
Isabella's expression softened immediately. She smiled, the lines at the corner of her eyes deepening as she waved a hand dismissively. "You are so cute," she said warmly. "And don't bother with the whole 'ma' stuff. Just call me Tía Bella like Aina does, or Isabella if you want."
Olivia smiled back, relieved but still slightly flustered. "Yes, ma—sorry," she corrected herself quickly. "Yes, Aunt Bella."
After settling inside, Isabella was quickly pulled into another reunion. The first person she met was her mother, Núria. The older woman stepped forward the moment she saw her daughter, her face lighting up before immediately tightening with concern and curiosity. She reached out, holding Isabella's hands, her eyes scanning her instinctively as mothers always do.
"Isabella," Núria said warmly, pulling her into a brief embrace. "You're finally here." Then, almost instantly, her tone shifted. "Where is your husband? And Mateo?" she asked, glancing past her as if expecting them to appear from behind her at any second. "Didn't you say everyone was coming?"
Isabella sighed softly, already anticipating the disappointment. "Mama, David couldn't make it," she explained gently. "The restaurant has been packed nonstop lately—guests coming in from everywhere. And Mateo…" She paused briefly before continuing. "He has training, and there's a match coming up. He couldn't leave."
Núria's shoulders slumped a little at that. "Ah," she muttered, clearly unhappy. "It's been so long since I've seen the boy." For a moment, her disappointment was obvious, written clearly across her face. But just as quickly, she recovered, straightening herself and patting Isabella's arm. "Well, at least you're here. That's what matters."
Before she could say anything more, a sudden, sharp screech echoed through the house—loud, high-pitched, and full of unrestrained excitement. Isabella barely had time to react before she turned and saw Nora, her best friend and sister-in-law, rushing toward her from the hallway. Nora was still wearing an apron, evidence that she had been in the kitchen moments earlier, yet that hadn't stopped her from sprinting forward.
"NORA!" Isabella screamed back, her own voice rising just as loudly.
The two women collided in the middle of the room, arms wrapping around each other as they shrieked and laughed at the same time. They clung to one another tightly, spinning slightly as if they were long-distance lovers who hadn't seen each other in years rather than best friends separated for only weeks.
Núria immediately raised her voice in complaint. "What is wrong with you two? Every single time!" she shouted, hands thrown into the air. "The noise—honestly, you'd think the house was on fire!"
Aina, standing nearby, rolled her eyes effortlessly, muttering under her breath, "They're still the same." Olivia, on the other hand, could only stand there, completely confused as she watched the scene unfold in front of her.
Eventually, the two women separated just enough to look at each other properly. Their hands stayed locked on each other's arms as they examined one another from head to toe.
"It's been so long," Nora said dramatically, her face twisting into an exaggerated expression of hurt. "Over a month! You just forgot about me."
Isabella scoffed immediately. "Me? Forget about you? Never." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she looked Nora up and down. "You look skinny. Is my brother treating you well?" She didn't even pause before continuing, her tone half-serious, half-teasing. "I told you to divorce that man. He's not good for you. I don't even know why you married him in the first place."
Nora laughed loudly. "I know, I know," she replied, waving it off. "But how else could we have become sisters?"
The two burst into laughter again, pulling each other back into another tight hug, their joy loud and unapologetic. It was obvious to anyone watching that time and distance had done nothing to weaken their bond—their friendship was still just as strong as ever.
A few hours later, the house had grown far more lively. Outside the main compound, the wide veranda had filled with quiet movement and murmurs—wooden chairs arranged in a loose semicircle, low tables scattered between them, all of it overlooking an open stretch of field that rolled gently into the distance. A soft breeze passed through now and then, carrying the faint sounds of laughter from inside the house, the clinking of plates, and the hum of conversation. It was the kind of place meant for sitting, watching, and talking for far longer than planned.
Seated across different chairs on that veranda were three women who, if gathered together, represented the single greatest headache in Oriol Aina's life—though he was nowhere in sight to witness it.
The first was his wife, Nora. She sat comfortably, one leg crossed over the other, her posture relaxed and confident. A small, knowing smile rested on her lips, the kind that suggested she was enjoying herself far too much. Oriol had had a crush on her since the day he was twelve and she was ten, and even now, decades later, that same spark of mischief and charm clung to her effortlessly.
Next to her was his immediate younger sister, Isabella. Ever since they were young, she had possessed a rare and dangerous talent—the ability to drag Oriol into trouble without even trying. She sat with her arms loosely folded, leaning back slightly, her expression calm but sharp, eyes always alert as if she were already planning something.
The last of the trio was his daughter, Aina. She sat a little more stiffly than the other two, though anyone who knew her well could see the resemblance immediately. She had inherited ninety percent of her traits from her mother—same eyes, same expressions, same stubborn fire hiding just beneath the surface. The only difference was restraint.
As the three gathered there, Oriol—unaware of the meeting entirely—would have known instantly that nothing good ever came from these three troublemakers being alone together.
"So… what's all this about?"
Aina lowered herself into the chair across from them, her movements careful as her eyes flicked between her mother and her aunt. Both women were smiling at her. Not gentle smiles. Not comforting ones. Smiles that made her stomach tighten.
She felt a prickle of apprehension crawl up her spine as she settled into her seat. What do these women want? she thought warily. Growing up, Aina had heard more than enough stories about the things her mother and her aunt had gotten up to in their younger days—stories told with laughter, pride, and absolutely no regret. Being cornered like this was never a good sign.
Her mind immediately began racing, searching for an excuse, any excuse, to leave. At the same time, she silently cursed her father for disappearing that morning of all days. He knew his sister was coming. He always ran when things like this were about to happen.
"Maria, how are you?" Isabella asked suddenly, her voice quick and smooth, jumping straight in. "How was your stay there? Your mom said you're still waiting for the school acceptance letter."
Aina straightened slightly, keeping her guard up. "It was nice," she replied carefully. "And yes, the school hasn't gotten back yet."
Isabella waved a hand dismissively, smiling wider. "Don't worry. I'm sure you'll get in. Who wouldn't want our genius girl at their school?"
"Yes, ma," Aina answered politely, nodding once. "I'm also waiting for good news."
Her eyes never stopped moving, watching both women closely. Isabella leaned forward just a little, resting her elbows lightly on her knees, her tone shifting as she spoke again.
"So," Isabella said, casual but deliberate, "about your friend Olivia—"
Aina's face contorted almost instantly at the mention of the name, her expression tightening as she waited for her aunt to finish.
But before Isabella could finish her sentence, Nora, Aina's mother, who had been sitting quietly until now, grew visibly impatient. Her brows furrowed, and her lips pressed tightly together as she finally broke the silence. "Why are you wasting your time coercing this girl?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the veranda like a whip. Her eyes, fiery and sharp, locked onto Aina with unmistakable intensity, a silent warning threaded through every glance.
Isabella, caught mid-sentence, no longer hiding behind any semblance of affection, turned her gaze sharply toward Nora. Her tone was cold, biting, and unapologetic. "You—this woman! Would you just shut up and let me finish what I'm doing?" The harshness in her voice left no room for argument.
Nora, far from intimidated, pivoted slightly and addressed Isabella's mother, who had attempted to intervene, scolding her. With a disdainful scoff, Nora folded her arms across her chest, exuding an aura of stubborn defiance. Aina, seated between them, didn't flinch. Years of observing these confrontations had trained her eyes to skim over the theatrics; she was immune to their verbal sparring, already mentally elsewhere.
Isabella let out a small, calculated cough, a deliberate attempt to rebuild her loving facade. She straightened slightly in her chair, softening her expression, and said, "Don't mind your mother, Maria. About what I was saying…" But before she could continue, Nora cut her off with ruthless efficiency. "We want your help to hook up Olivia and your cousin Mateo."
The words struck Isabella like a hammer to the chest. Her face contorted with disbelief and indignation, and she shouted, "You bitch! Don't you even have any tact at all?!"
Nora, completely unbothered, shot back, "Isn't it just Aina? Why are you begging her? I'm her mother. Just give her the command—she'll obey."
Isabella's temper flared hotter, and she snapped, "You and your way! I've told you how to talk and listen to your kids!"
Before she could continue, Nora raised her voice over hers, speaking with finality, "If God wanted me to listen to her, I won't be her mother!"
Aina, sitting there, watching her aunt and mother bicker over her future, had tuned them out entirely. Her mind was spinning, thoughts colliding in contradictory bursts. Olivia and Mateo? My Olivia, my sweet, beautiful, innocent Olivia… and that one? She imagined Olivia as a delicate golden light, radiating warmth, joy, and kindness—every move glittering like sunlight on water. Then, almost instinctively, her mind shifted, imagining Mateo as the contrasting dark feathers to that light—mysterious, brooding, and undeniably captivating.
She opened her mouth as if to respond, ready to protest and reject the idea outright. Yet a thought stopped her in its tracks. Wait… isn't this what I wanted too?
One of the major reasons Aina had insisted that Olivia come to Spain was precisely this. She wanted Olivia to leave America behind, to step away from her heartbreak and her ex-boyfriend who had cheated on her. Aina had planned to orchestrate a kind of Spanish summer love for her friend—a fleeting, healing romance that could help Olivia move forward. Having grown up here, she knew well the kind of passionate love stories Spanish boys could offer, and she knew Mateo had always been exceptionally good-looking, charming, and poised, even as a child.
Aina's mind drifted further into memories of Olivia's recent behavior—the way she would drop everything to watch any interview Mateo did, the way she eagerly followed football stories, even putting aside her music-making sessions to listen to anecdotes about her and Mateo's childhood, translated for her by Nora. She remembered the quiet intensity of Olivia's fascination, the devotion she showed without realizing it herself, and Aina felt her own plan solidify.
Isabella, noticing Aina's sudden immersion in thought, paused her argument with Nora. She leaned slightly forward, trying to smooth over the chaos that had erupted. "Maria, baby, it's not—well, it is, but—"
Before she could finish, Aina cut her off decisively. "I will do it."
Both Nora and Isabella froze, shocked, eyes wide. "Ehm… do what?" they asked in unison.
Aina smiled, calm and determined, her voice filled with a quiet certainty that left no room for argument. "Olivia and Mateo… let's do it."
Meanwhile, far removed from the lively chaos of the veranda, Mateo and Olivia were entirely unaware of the scheme being set into motion. One was wrapped up in grueling training, the other struggling to finish the last few songs for her upcoming album. Neither could have guessed that three dangerous, determined women were already scheming around them, planning to bring together a romance that, up until now, had existed only in fleeting glances and unspoken possibilities. And thanks to this fateful meeting, the first steps toward their meeting—and a future that neither could yet imagine—were now already underway.
Meanwhile, a couple of miles away, inside a weathered, sun-bleached shack, Oriol had holed himself up. He had run away from home the moment he realized his sister was arriving, needing some space before the whirlwind of family chaos hit. Now, sitting slouched in a wooden chair, Oriol's eyes were glued to the flickering screen of the old television, watching the latest episode of El Chiringuito de Jugones. His voice erupted from time to time, raining curses at the Madrid-centered guest commentators as he defended Barcelona with relentless passion. Every outlandish claim he made, no matter how ridiculous, was backed with vehement energy, gesturing wildly with his hands as if the TV could hear him personally.
As he shouted at the screen, a voice pierced his bubble. "Boss! Boss!" Oriol turned his head to see his farm manager standing in the doorway. Carlos, with a clipboard in hand and a slight smile tugging at his lips, called out, "These are the two people who passed the interview for the post of tractor drivers."
Oriol glanced toward the newcomers and gave a quick nod. "Okay, then. Thanks, Carlos."
Carlos waved dismissively, muttering something about going back to the fields, and left the shack, disappearing into the sprawling farmland.
Oriol sat back for a moment, reflecting. He was a small- to middle-tier farmer. Life wasn't luxurious—he needed to manage the land carefully, make sure his family was fed, and ensure his daughter's schooling abroad didn't drain them financially. He had enough to hire people to manage the farm and provide for his family, even send his daughter abroad to study at a top, expensive school like MIT, but he was far from wealthy. He knew Aina had been saving her earnings from acting for her tuition, but Oriol felt no father could allow their child to spend their own hard-earned money if he could prevent it. Still, for now, watching the TV, surrounded by the two new tractor drivers, José and Manuel, all other worries were pushed to the back of his mind.
Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the shack. Oriol poured them each a drink, a light amber beer foaming over the edges of the glass. "Drink, drink! I've said it before—now that you're all officially hired, we're family here at the farm. Don't be shy!" His voice boomed with laughter, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
José, ever the cheerful one, accepted the drink eagerly, raising it in a mock salute. Manuel, on the other hand, hesitated, holding his glass slightly away from himself, a bit apprehensive about the rowdy welcome.
Oriol turned back to the TV, pointing at the screen with his glass raised. "Look at those bastards! They're acting, Mateo! Jealous because Barca is rising while Madrid is sinking. Cowards!"
José leaned back, grinning ear to ear. "Yes, boss! Don't mind them!"
Manuel just chuckled awkwardly, not fully contributing. Oriol's gaze snapped toward him, venom lacing his tone. "Are you good? You aren't talking. Don't tell me… you're a Madridista?"
Manuel shook his head quickly, defensive. "It's not that. I'm just… not into football."
The two men, Oriol and José, erupted into laughter and teasing, questioning Manuel's manhood and mocking him relentlessly. Manuel raised his hands in defense. "It's not like I haven't tried! I just don't understand why people are so obsessed. Tennis is right there, even golf—those are actually technical sports!"
The trio, despite the arguments, started to bond, bridging the gap between employer and employees. The beers kept flowing, their laughter louder with each passing moment. It was Oriol's tradition to drink with his new hires on their first day—a ritual meant to break down walls and create camaraderie, and it worked perfectly tonight.
As the banter reached its peak, Oriol pointed at the screen, eyes wide, voice booming. "At least you know Messi, right?"
Before Manuel could respond, José shouted over him. "Why wouldn't he know Messi? He might not know Hazard or Neymar, but no way he doesn't know Messi!" He turned to Manuel, eyes blazing. "Am I lying?"
Manuel hesitated, fumbling slightly. "Of course I know him… ehm… Leo… Lionel… right?"
José's jaw dropped, and he barked out, "Lionel Andrés Messi Cuccittini? Why the hell are you struggling so much?"
Manuel raised his hands in frustration. "This is my problem with you football people. Why in the world do you even memorize Messi's full name?"
Oriol slammed his hand on the table, voice cutting sharp. "What kind of stupid question is that? It's like asking why people breathe!"
Manuel froze, stunned. "Huh?"
José leaned closer, eyes deadly serious, voice low but intense. "Yes. What else in this world is worth memorizing instead of Messi's name? I mean, it's the least we can do—the minimum obligation of humanity."
Manuel finally looked between the two, taking in the sheer intensity and madness radiating from both his boss and coworker. Slowly, he exhaled, nodding in defeat. Yes… these two are mad, he thought, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips as he finally accepted it.
A/N
I intended this chapter to be my attempt at comedy… though honestly, it's not really comedy. I also genuinely feel it's an obligation of humanity to know Messi's full name and honor it (and yes, I'm absolutely not joking).
A/N
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