Valentina and Mateo
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 3
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The alarm buzzed at 4:45 a.m., sharp and unforgiving. Valentina Ramírez—Val—reached out in the dark, silencing it before it could wake Matty. She lay still for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling of their one-bedroom apartment in the distressed edge of Havenridge. The room smelled faintly of bleach and yesterday’s arroz con pollo. Thirty-five years old, a single mother from Mexico who had crossed the border with nothing but hope and a belly already rounding with her son, Val rose quietly, her bare feet cold on the linoleum.
She moved through the dim kitchen, starting coffee in the dented pot. Her reflection in the window showed the same wide, rounded face she had always known: big brown eyes under long lashes, a small nose, a beauty mark just below her lower lip, long brown hair already pulled into a tight bun. She wore her usual work uniform—dark pants, plain gray polo, flat black shoes—practical, invisible. She spoke to herself in Spanish, soft and low. “Otro día, Dios. Solo otro día.”
By 5:30 she was on the bus, squeezed between night-shift workers and early commuters. The office building where she cleaned was a gleaming tower downtown, home to lawyers, accountants, and executives who never looked down. Val’s job began at 6:00 a.m.: mopping marble lobbies, scrubbing toilets, emptying trash that overflowed with coffee cups and takeout containers. She worked alone most mornings, which was a mercy.
But not always.
Today, two maintenance men—big, loud, white—were already in the break room when she arrived to restock supplies. “Hey, Maria,” one called, using the name they always used because they couldn’t be bothered to learn Valentina. “You gonna clean my desk today too?” The other laughed, mimicking her accent badly. “Sí, señor, right away.” Val kept her eyes on the floor, murmuring, “Yes, sir,” in her halting English. She felt the heat climb her neck, the familiar knot in her stomach. They didn’t stop. One bumped her shoulder “accidentally” as he passed, knocking her mop bucket; water sloshed across the floor she’d just polished. “Oops. Guess you got more work now, huh?”
She said nothing. She never did. She bent to wipe it up, knees aching already, while they walked away chuckling. Later, a junior associate—a young woman in heels—saw Val scrubbing the women’s restroom and wrinkled her nose. “God, it smells like bleach and desperation in here.” Val pretended not to hear, but the words lodged like splinters.
Every humiliation was cataloged. She remembered them all: the man who left her pregnant and vanished, the coworkers who mocked her accent, the strangers who called her “illegal” on the street. She swallowed each one, letting them fuel the secret fire inside. When the pain grew too sharp, she escaped into fantasy.
In her mind, she was no longer Val the janitor. She was an empress in Rome—not the ancient one, but a new empire she ruled. She wore black silk and gold, her hair loose and wild. Around her, powerful women knelt—beautiful, ruthless, their eyes gleaming with devotion. Together they conquered, enslaved, crushed resistance. Men who had mocked her begged for mercy; she granted none. She walked marble halls lined with chains, her laughter echoing, her power absolute. In these visions, she was not polite. She was cruel, greedy, magnificent. The fantasies carried her through the worst hours, through the endless mopping, through the ache in her back and the sting in her eyes.
She finished her shift at 2:30 p.m., exhausted, smelling of disinfectant. On the bus home she stared out the window, still half in Rome. When she stepped into the apartment, the smell of home—warm tortillas, her son—pulled her back.
Matty was already there, school bag dropped by the door. Sixteen now, short for his age, thin as a reed, dark tanned skin glowing from the afternoon light. His long straight brown hair reached almost to his wrists; he kept it tied back loosely at school but let it fall free at home. His large brown eyes, so like hers, were bright but guarded. He was pretty—heart-shaped face, long lashes, soft features—and he knew it made him a target.
School had been another gauntlet. Matty excelled academically—straight A’s in math, English, history—but that only made things worse. In the hallways, the louder boys shoved him against lockers. “Hey, princess,” one sneered today, flicking his hair. “You gonna cry again?” They called him names—fag, weakling, girl-boy—because he never fought back, because his voice was soft, because he blushed when anyone looked at him too long. He endured it silently, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor, the same way Val did.
He had two friends, sort of. Nerdy boys from the robotics club: Ethan, who talked nonstop about code, and Raj, who was obsessed with anime. They sat together at lunch, but Matty never felt like he truly belonged. Their conversations moved past him; he nodded, smiled, contributed little. He liked them well enough, but he didn’t feel seen.
And then there were the girls.
He loved them—quietly, desperately. The way a girl in his English class laughed, the way another tucked her hair behind her ear. He watched from afar, heart racing, palms sweating. Once he had tried to speak to a girl named Sofia—pretty, kind, sat two rows ahead. He’d rehearsed the words all night: “Hey, did you understand the homework?” But when she turned, he froze. His throat closed; he managed only a mumble and fled to the bathroom, cheeks burning. He hated himself for it. In his secret fantasies, though, he was different.
In those dreams he was tall, muscular, commanding. Girls who ignored him now knelt before him, eyes wide with awe and fear. He was dominant, sexy, evil—megalomaniacal. He ruled them, not with cruelty exactly, but with irresistible power. They wanted him; they begged. The fantasies were sharp, intoxicating, and utterly private. Not even Val knew.
He survived school the way he survived everything: by retreating inward, by holding tight to his mother. After the bell, he walked home alone, head down, replaying the day’s humiliations until he reached their building. Inside, he could breathe.
When Val walked in, Matty was at the table, doing homework. She smiled—her real smile, soft and tired. “Hola, mijo.”
“Hi, Mamá.” He stood to hug her, careful, like she was fragile. She smelled like cleaning chemicals, but to him she smelled like safety.
They moved through their ritual. She cooked—chicken tinga tonight—while he set the table. They ate slowly, talking in a mix of English and Spanish. She asked about school; he said it was fine, skipping the worst parts. He asked about her day; she said the same. Neither wanted to burden the other.
After dinner, they sat on the sagging couch. The TV murmured in the background, some telenovela neither watched. Val leaned her head on his shoulder; Matty rested his against hers. In the quiet, their hidden worlds brushed close—her Rome of chains and conquest, his dreams of dominance and desire—but neither spoke them aloud.
They were survivors, bound by love and silence. Outside, the city was cruel. Inside, for a few hours, they were safe. Tomorrow would come again—the bus, the lockers, the humiliation—but tonight they had each other.
Val whispered, “Te quiero, Matty.”
He whispered back, “Yo también, Mamá.”
And in the dim light of their small apartment, they endured.
How do they become powerful?
She moved through the dim kitchen, starting coffee in the dented pot. Her reflection in the window showed the same wide, rounded face she had always known: big brown eyes under long lashes, a small nose, a beauty mark just below her lower lip, long brown hair already pulled into a tight bun. She wore her usual work uniform—dark pants, plain gray polo, flat black shoes—practical, invisible. She spoke to herself in Spanish, soft and low. “Otro día, Dios. Solo otro día.”
By 5:30 she was on the bus, squeezed between night-shift workers and early commuters. The office building where she cleaned was a gleaming tower downtown, home to lawyers, accountants, and executives who never looked down. Val’s job began at 6:00 a.m.: mopping marble lobbies, scrubbing toilets, emptying trash that overflowed with coffee cups and takeout containers. She worked alone most mornings, which was a mercy.
But not always.
Today, two maintenance men—big, loud, white—were already in the break room when she arrived to restock supplies. “Hey, Maria,” one called, using the name they always used because they couldn’t be bothered to learn Valentina. “You gonna clean my desk today too?” The other laughed, mimicking her accent badly. “Sí, señor, right away.” Val kept her eyes on the floor, murmuring, “Yes, sir,” in her halting English. She felt the heat climb her neck, the familiar knot in her stomach. They didn’t stop. One bumped her shoulder “accidentally” as he passed, knocking her mop bucket; water sloshed across the floor she’d just polished. “Oops. Guess you got more work now, huh?”
She said nothing. She never did. She bent to wipe it up, knees aching already, while they walked away chuckling. Later, a junior associate—a young woman in heels—saw Val scrubbing the women’s restroom and wrinkled her nose. “God, it smells like bleach and desperation in here.” Val pretended not to hear, but the words lodged like splinters.
Every humiliation was cataloged. She remembered them all: the man who left her pregnant and vanished, the coworkers who mocked her accent, the strangers who called her “illegal” on the street. She swallowed each one, letting them fuel the secret fire inside. When the pain grew too sharp, she escaped into fantasy.
In her mind, she was no longer Val the janitor. She was an empress in Rome—not the ancient one, but a new empire she ruled. She wore black silk and gold, her hair loose and wild. Around her, powerful women knelt—beautiful, ruthless, their eyes gleaming with devotion. Together they conquered, enslaved, crushed resistance. Men who had mocked her begged for mercy; she granted none. She walked marble halls lined with chains, her laughter echoing, her power absolute. In these visions, she was not polite. She was cruel, greedy, magnificent. The fantasies carried her through the worst hours, through the endless mopping, through the ache in her back and the sting in her eyes.
She finished her shift at 2:30 p.m., exhausted, smelling of disinfectant. On the bus home she stared out the window, still half in Rome. When she stepped into the apartment, the smell of home—warm tortillas, her son—pulled her back.
Matty was already there, school bag dropped by the door. Sixteen now, short for his age, thin as a reed, dark tanned skin glowing from the afternoon light. His long straight brown hair reached almost to his wrists; he kept it tied back loosely at school but let it fall free at home. His large brown eyes, so like hers, were bright but guarded. He was pretty—heart-shaped face, long lashes, soft features—and he knew it made him a target.
School had been another gauntlet. Matty excelled academically—straight A’s in math, English, history—but that only made things worse. In the hallways, the louder boys shoved him against lockers. “Hey, princess,” one sneered today, flicking his hair. “You gonna cry again?” They called him names—fag, weakling, girl-boy—because he never fought back, because his voice was soft, because he blushed when anyone looked at him too long. He endured it silently, shoulders hunched, eyes on the floor, the same way Val did.
He had two friends, sort of. Nerdy boys from the robotics club: Ethan, who talked nonstop about code, and Raj, who was obsessed with anime. They sat together at lunch, but Matty never felt like he truly belonged. Their conversations moved past him; he nodded, smiled, contributed little. He liked them well enough, but he didn’t feel seen.
And then there were the girls.
He loved them—quietly, desperately. The way a girl in his English class laughed, the way another tucked her hair behind her ear. He watched from afar, heart racing, palms sweating. Once he had tried to speak to a girl named Sofia—pretty, kind, sat two rows ahead. He’d rehearsed the words all night: “Hey, did you understand the homework?” But when she turned, he froze. His throat closed; he managed only a mumble and fled to the bathroom, cheeks burning. He hated himself for it. In his secret fantasies, though, he was different.
In those dreams he was tall, muscular, commanding. Girls who ignored him now knelt before him, eyes wide with awe and fear. He was dominant, sexy, evil—megalomaniacal. He ruled them, not with cruelty exactly, but with irresistible power. They wanted him; they begged. The fantasies were sharp, intoxicating, and utterly private. Not even Val knew.
He survived school the way he survived everything: by retreating inward, by holding tight to his mother. After the bell, he walked home alone, head down, replaying the day’s humiliations until he reached their building. Inside, he could breathe.
When Val walked in, Matty was at the table, doing homework. She smiled—her real smile, soft and tired. “Hola, mijo.”
“Hi, Mamá.” He stood to hug her, careful, like she was fragile. She smelled like cleaning chemicals, but to him she smelled like safety.
They moved through their ritual. She cooked—chicken tinga tonight—while he set the table. They ate slowly, talking in a mix of English and Spanish. She asked about school; he said it was fine, skipping the worst parts. He asked about her day; she said the same. Neither wanted to burden the other.
After dinner, they sat on the sagging couch. The TV murmured in the background, some telenovela neither watched. Val leaned her head on his shoulder; Matty rested his against hers. In the quiet, their hidden worlds brushed close—her Rome of chains and conquest, his dreams of dominance and desire—but neither spoke them aloud.
They were survivors, bound by love and silence. Outside, the city was cruel. Inside, for a few hours, they were safe. Tomorrow would come again—the bus, the lockers, the humiliation—but tonight they had each other.
Val whispered, “Te quiero, Matty.”
He whispered back, “Yo también, Mamá.”
And in the dim light of their small apartment, they endured.
How do they become powerful?
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·
June 13
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