The Proposal (Business)

Why are we here, Max? It's dark. And technically, the site is closed.

"Trust me," I said, guiding Sofía through the pedestrian gate with my flashlight.

The San Nicolás was silent. The moonlight filtered through the open roof, casting long, silver shadows across the stone arches. The fake marble was gone—crushed and hauled away by Raúl’s crew yesterday. The courtyard was bare earth and ancient stone.

It looked honest.

"I received my first paycheck from the Ministry today," I said, walking her to the center of the courtyard. "Fifty thousand pesos."

"Rich man," she teased. "Going to buy a yacht?"

"I bought paint," I said. "And a domain name."

I pointed my flashlight at the far wall—a temporary plywood barrier Raúl had put up to protect the restoration zone.

On the wood, I had taped a large sheet of architectural paper.

Sofía walked closer.

It was a rendering. But not a computer-generated one. It was hand-drawn in ink and watercolor.

It showed the hotel restored. Not as a glossy resort, but as a sanctuary. Open courtyards. Hanging gardens. Local art on the walls.

And at the bottom, in bold, elegant lettering (which I had practiced for hours):

Sofía stared at it.

"Mercedes & DeLuca?" she whispered.

"I can't do this alone, Sofía," I said, standing behind her. "I know structure. I know stone. But you? You know the soul of this place. You know the color of the light. You know the history."

I turned her around to face me.

"I don't want to just be the guy who fixes the building. I want to build a business with you. We keep the print shop—that's the steady income. But we expand. We take on restoration projects. Design work. We make the Zona Colonial real again."

I reached into my pocket.

"I don't have a ring," I admitted. "Catalina kept the jewelry."

I pulled out a set of keys. Shiny, new brass keys.

"But I made a copy of the office key," I said. "The site office. It’s ours now."

Sofía looked at the keys. She looked at the drawing. Her eyes were shimmering in the moonlight.

"You put my name first," she noted.

"Alphabetical order?" I lied.

"Liar," she smiled. "You put it first because you know who the Boss is."

"That too."

She took the keys. She closed her fingers around them tight.

"Partners," she said. "50-50?"

"60-40," I countered. "You have the truck."

She laughed. "Deal."

She wrapped her arms around my neck.

"So," she whispered. "Mercedes & DeLuca. Sounds expensive."

"Very exclusive," I agreed. "We only take clients who appreciate good rum and bad bachata."

"Then we will be very busy," she said.

She kissed me.

Above us, the moon shone down through the open roof. There was no glass to block it. No filter. No ceiling.

Just the sky.

And we were ready to build.