It's a harsh truth that no matter how epic your fan blog is, you will not be able to pay the bills with that success. I know, because even after my latest five posts went viral, the blog has netted me just over six dollars this month.

Which could be because I have no idea how to run a website for actual money and mostly spend my time writing about everyone except the club's all-star players.

But I can't be blamed. They are annoying rich jerks and they already get enough press.

I deposit my earnings into my account and take another glance at the final balance as I hop onto the train. The numbers are screaming 'just get a job, Lorena! Any job will do,' but my pride will not allow it. I may have bombed the last six or sixty interviews but I will prove everyone wrong and find something perfect.

The train door closes behind me, narrowly missing my purse as they do. Resisting the urge to curse out the doors—there are children present—I make my way through the crowded aisle until I find a place to stand. The train jerks to a start and I pull up Real Barcelona news on my phone, searching for ideas for my next blog post. I might as well get as much writing done as I can while I'm technically unemployed.

As we approach the next stop, people shuffle about the train, making their way to the doors. A little girl crawls onto her mother's lap to leave room for me and I smile as I make my way to the bench to sit down.

Even in this loud, crowded train full of obnoxious teenagers and one yapping dog, the tell-tale echo of a seam ripping apart is all that greets me as I lower myself onto the ugly blue bench. And an uncomfortable warmth of public transit plastic is all the proof I need that the sound emanated from me.

I really would like to speak to whoever is in charge of the seams on women's dress suit things. Honestly. I pay good money for these items and I can't even convince one of them to last a whole year before I'm sitting here hoping everyone else gets off the train so I won't have any witnesses when I stand up and flash my last clean pair of underwear—a sparkly red thong—to the entire crowded train car.

Thankfully, everyone has the decency to pretend they did not notice what happened. Everyone, that is, except an older man sitting across the aisle flashing me a cheeky grin.

Ew.

My phone, fast becoming the harbinger of nothing but bad news, buzzes in my hand, the screen showing the number my landlord's agent uses when he calls. The last thing I need right now is to be homeless.

"Hello?" I say when the call connects. "What can I do for you?"

I fish around in my purse until I find a somewhat opaque reusable shopping bag I can fashion around my waist like a sort of backwards apron. I'm going to have to get off this train eventually, so I might as well multitask.

"Lorena, it's Javi. I'm sorry to call again but I still don't have your rent for this month or last and I really need to know what's going on."

"So sorry, Javi. I meant to call you but I've been so wrapped up in this family emergency I've not even had time to eat properly." I hold my breath, hoping my lie will hold him off at least a few more days until I can land a job. Maybe THE job. And then I can pay the rent, or at least borrow the money from Carla until I get this all sorted out.

"I'm so sorry, Lor—Lorena. I didn't know. Do you need anything? I can have the guys bring some food by maybe, or—"

I cut him off before he offers me anything more inappropriate than food. "Javi, I'm not even at home. I appreciate the offer, but really, I'm fine. I'll give you a call once I'm back in town and we can figure it out?"

The train emerges from a tunnel and the next stop announcement is less than thirty seconds away. I can't let him hear it. So I cut him off mid sentence. "I'm so sorry, Javi. I have to go. Sorry!"

My stomach turns at all the lies I've told him. Does it make it better or worse that I'm only lying to him to make sure he doesn't offer to let me live with him? The man is impossibly decent, but about as exciting as a pack of rice crackers.

My mother would probably kill me for what I've just done. And what I'm about to do. And what I'm doing right now. But what do I care? She made her choices.

I'm Lorena Martinez and I'm an independent woman who refuses to call her mom.

Before I've even had the chance to put my phone away, the robotic voice announces we've arrived at City Hall Station and I stand, hoping my makeshift bag-apron keeps my underwear and more from being on full display. As soon as the train eases to a stop, I slam my thumb into the button to open the door, but it won't listen, flashing green and then red as I press it too quickly. Cursing, I shake my hand around until it turns green and then press it again and tumble out the doors onto the platform.

In the process, my purse does its best to spill the entire contents onto the sidewalk, but I win that war, managing to hold it tight enough that the only thing I lose is a singular piece of paper.

The blue scrap of paper I'd used this morning when Carla told me where to come this afternoon has nothing but an address written on it in my illegible cursive, but I forgot to put it in my phone. So I really need that paper.

Commuters and tourists alike jump aside as I chase the scrap of paper through the air until it lands in a nearby bush. The speed with which I'm approaching the bush is too much and I crash right into it, cutting up my legs and arms in the process.

But I got the paper though, so it was a successful attempt. The fact that I can still read the address, or that I ever could in the first place, is miraculous. Clearly it's a good sign.

My day is going to turn around, I can feel it.

* * *

I navigate the busy streets of the downtown core, heat from the sun bouncing off the tall buildings and heating up the ground below to intolerable temperatures. Finally, only one blister and two drive-by flirts later, I arrive at the address to find a massive steel structure that is covered in glass. I cannot even imagine how long it takes them to wash all of those windows.

The fact that I've never been here before shocks absolutely no one as the name 'Heineback Tower' is practically synonymous with 'I have a trust fund.' I can't believe Carla didn't warn me this is where we were meeting.

Actually, I can. I totally wouldn't have come.

But I'm here now. Fifteen whole minutes early. Which, given the line at the entrance, will probably not be early enough. And here I thought I'd planned everything so well.

"You better have good snacks in there," I whisper to myself, grudgingly joining the queue of elegantly dressed people seeking entry into the building and debating if I could salvage my friendship with Carla if I just turned around and ran home right now.

But I made her a promise. And it's after work hours, so I'm not going to meet any of the fancy rich people who work here. The elevators for the apartments aren't in the public areas. So my odds of running into anyone who isn't here as part of Carla's show is really low.

It's a risk I'll have to take, but I don't need to help it along, so I keep my eyes trained on my feet until I get inside the first door and can see the security up close for the first time.

There are metal detectors and at least three guards at the second door. It sends my mind spiraling in all sorts of directions about what kind of secrets the building must hold.

"Employee entrance is around the back," the stout blond man says to me as I reach the front of the line and hand him my bag for security.

"Oh, I... I'm not an employee. I'm here to meet my friend Carla. She's hosting the fashion show."

"Ah," he says, as though he hasn't just made a somewhat rude assumption based on my appearance. "Name please."

"Lorena Martinez."

His finger slides down a list and then stops, looking back up at me and then down at the paper again. "You have identification on you?"

"Do I need it?"

"Well, there is no image on file for you so procedure dictates I have to—"

Where does this guy get off speaking like he graduated from Oxford or something? I can't even listen to the rest of what he says, pulling my drivers license out of my wallet and handing it to him. "Happy?" I demand, slamming my bag down into the tray with a sickening smack. I can practically feel my nail polish leaking out into the bottom of my purse but I'm not going to give him the satisfaction. So I don't even look back, swiping my identification from his hand and marching through the metal detectors and into the grandest lobby this city has ever seen.

Even in the mid-evening, the whole lobby is bright. So well lit that I'm sure every little imperfection in a scuffed shoe or mismatched jewellery would be immediately apparent. Perhaps this is how the rich like to live, with a magnifying glass right there to amplify every little mistake at all times. It's certainly how my mother behaves when she thinks they are watching.

But I am not now and never have been a pristine diamond, cut without the smallest of flaws; I am a rugged piece of sandstone, formed when imperfection after imperfection piled on top of each other to create something kind of cohesive and occasionally a little bit cool.

I stick to the edge of the room until I find Carla, pulling her into a hug. "This looks amazing!" I say, gesturing to the prestigious venue she's snagged for this year's fashion show. "I cannot believe how great your business is doing."

"You can't?" she laughs. "I totally can."

"Hilarious," I reply. "And thanks for the heads up on where this was happening. Really appreciate it."

She rolls her eyes and answers a question from one of the employees walking around with radios clipped to their pants.

When she turns her attention back to me, I focus on the most important problem. "I split my skirt on the way here. Any chance you can direct me to a new outfit and a place to change before one of these rich people try to squish me under their shoe like a bug?"

"They aren't all bad," she says, gesturing for her newest assistant to join us.

"I hate rich people," I mutter. "I swear they live in a different world than we do."

"Watch yourself," Carla narrows her eyes. "You might be talking to one of those rich people."

"Well, you don't count."

"We'll unpack that later." She waves her hand around as if to brush me off. For now. And then she pushes her assistant toward me and continues. "Go with Jess and she'll take you somewhere to get changed."

Jess and I get almost three feet away before Carla catches up to us and pulls on my arm. "Lor, try to keep it together tonight, okay? I know this is going to be hard for you, but Divya's already here somewhere and I think Bianca is bringing Enrique. So you'll have some company for the rest of the night. Just have fun!"

She doesn't even wait for my reply before turning to face another young man with a headset who is asking her a question about stage lighting.

I'm going to take my own advice and fix one problem at a time. Step one, get a new outfit. Step two, find my friends. Step three, avoid anyone who might live or work here and drown myself in so much alcohol I forget why I vowed never to come here.

I follow Jess to a small room with several dresses in my size and she closes the door between us so I can get changed.

My daddy always used to say you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig. Well, no matter which of these dresses I put on, that's what I'm going to feel like tonight: a pig with lipstick.

I'm finally ready to go back out and join the party, but still debating whether it's worth just running away or faking an illness, when my phone chimes again.

Gritting my teeth and bracing myself for another rejection email, I pull it open and unlock the home screen. I'm definitely doing this because it might be important work matters and not because I don't want to go back out there.

I'm not stalling.

My phone takes its sweet time, which is just the universe saying I'm meant to avoid some more of this party, and then it finally opens the notification. But it's not work that has my email alert chiming chaotically. It's my search alert for my favourite fútbol team, Real Barcelona.

The alert is not usually very active in the off season, so I know this one is going to be big. And when I click the email open, it's obvious I was right.

This good be the most lucrative news of the year.

I swear I'm not stalling, it's just you can't leave a headline like "Óscar Calderón spotted at charity gala with new mystery girl" unopened. This is juicy. Óscar is the kind of guy who never has dates to these kinds of things.

Sure, there's rumours he gets his fair share of women into his bed, but there is NEVER a woman on his arm. If this is true, it's huge news. I mean, I don't usually cover Mr. Moneybags on principle, but a girl's gotta eat.

There's a small comfort in the fact that no one knows the blog is mine, so I won't have to defend myself for dropping my morals for a paycheque.

A few more minutes of taking notes won't hurt anyone, right?