I'll Be Your Mirror

Chapter I

A/N: Special thanks to my beta ckeller48. She's amazing, as are her stories, which you should read :).

Santana POV

The conference room feels much colder than usual. My mother, my boss, insists on temperature control in every room in the office. I'm sure that she would control the weather itself if she could. She hates it when something is outside of her control. She's a creature of manipulation. I always knew that about her, but it wasn't until I became intimately acquainted with her work life that I realized how extreme it could be.

I'm forced to button my suit jacket to prevent any visible shiver. I wonder absently what her motivation for today's room chilling temperature is.

"Santana, you're drifting." My mother, Maribel Lopez scolds, and I glance up from the over traced circle I have been making on my notepad.

"I need you focused for this." It's a lecture I've become all too familiar with as of late.

Outside of this office, she has all of the confidence in the world in me. She will jump at any chance to brag about her daughter's various law school achievements or singing talent. But at work, I'm just the newest member of the team. I'm the hapless rookie. I'm the one voted most likely to fuck everything up.

"I know. This is the fifth time you've told me." I don't completely roll my eyes, but I come dangerously close. I know an eye roll would earn me more grunt work that I certainly don't need.

"Maybe if you acknowledged me when I gave you a direction, I wouldn't have to repeat myself." She almost sounds like the stereotypical chiding mother as she says it. She's anything but.

"How about you wait until I actually make a fucking mistake before you start talking to me like I'm a teenager?" She flinches at my colorful language. I half expect to be reprimanded, but she doesn't address it.

"We don't have that luxury. These are people's lives." She reminds me.

It's not that we deal with life and death on the daily. But often the fate of families, livelihoods, and communities are in our hands.

We aren't always the people in the white hats either. Often times, we are agents of greed, power, and deception.

On the other hand, sometimes we do work in favor of the greater good. As long as the greater good is the one signing the checks.

My mother runs her own crisis management firm headquartered in New York City. The firm, Lopez and Associates, accepts jobs from all over the world. It's the reason why she was absent for the majority of my late childhood. I resented her for that, and yet, here I am; the newest edition to her practically unbeatable team.

I often wonder how my life took me here. I was one of those morons who majored in Political Science, and entertained the idea of a law degree, because what the hell else does someone do with a Political Science degree?

I fantasized about heated cross-examinations in courtrooms hushed by my wit and presence. Criminal Law seemed like it would be a good fit until I actually started learning about it. Do you know how many filings you have to make? That shit is not fun nor is it exciting.

When I reached my third and final year of school, I still hadn't found my fit. I had corporate opportunities, but that seemed even more filled with doldrums than Criminal Law.

My mother wasn't the one to tell me of the internship. I overheard some of the third years discussing it one day in the library. So, without speaking to ma about it, I applied.

I didn't want to get the job because of my mother. When the interviewer raised an eyebrow at my last name, I made a joke about fitting right in. As far as I knew, my mom had no hand in the internship process. She was far too busy and important to bother herself which such inconsequential matters. The surprise on her features when I arrived my first day, relayed as much.

Although, it is difficult for me to believe that they did not vet their applicants enough to discover that Maribel Lopez was my mother. As one of three interns, I did everything I could to prevent the other interns and co-workers from discovering who I was.

The actual hiring process after I graduated was much more rigorous and my mother was very much involved.

But the work, while it isn't always moral or ethical, is exciting. I also don't know any of my fellow graduates who are banking more than I am. In the current legal job market, I have every reason to be grateful.

Gratitude is difficult to muster when mom is giving me that look, however.

"Yes. I'm aware of the stakes." I respond in a monotone voice.

"Good. Now, Sean prepped you for the Relcon secretary interviews today?" She inquires, as if she didn't watch Sean and me in this very conference room for the past week.

We had been hired by Relcon's Board of Directors to manage an embezzlement scandal. Someone had been stealing funds to place in an unknown overseas account, but we have yet to discover who that person is. Also, if the information gets out to the public preemptively the Relcon stock was going to drop like nobody's business.

"Yes, and before you ask, I already faxed the spin speech for Ms. Arens to practice." I attempt to shorten this interaction.

It is a great speech, if I do say so; I wrote it myself. At any moment, the press could get wind of the embezzling, and although we would prefer to discover the culprit first before deciding how to approach the public, we had to be prepared for every scenario.

"You faxed it?!" Her fingertips are on her eyebrows before she gets the three words out. It's her tell-tale sign that she's trying to contain her frustration.

"She only has a work email and I was concerned that it would be monitored." I explain. Believe me, I didn't even know that people had fax machines anymore, but when Ms. Arens suggested it, it seemed like the best option.

"Did you fax it to her work?" Her eyes narrow, as her fingers leave her brow.

"No, of course not, I faxed it to her house." I shook my head. What did she think? I'm not stupid. I wouldn't send something like that where someone with conflicting interests could read it.

"Her home? Her home, Santana?! She has a housekeeper. A housekeeper who I assume can read, and who I assume can easily be paid by one of the other board members. How could you be so careless?" She's agitated. I know this, because her accent always comes out to play when her aggravation does.

"I didn't-" I start.

"Leave now. Retrieve the document.," she orders and my stomach drops. I know she's disappointed in me.

"I have the secretary interviews today," I protest.

"Not anymore you don't. Sean will do them." She rips my new found responsibility from me with one sentence. I've had to work my ass off to prove myself to be assigned to those interviews.

"But mamá, can't someone else go instead? Like one of the assistants or interns? I really don't see why it has to be me." I make a last ditch argument, but the way her face is set, I know it will be futile.

"No. You made the mistake. You fix it. There may be people here with lower pay grades, but they have better things to do than clean up after you. Talk to Renee on your way out so we can get Ms. Arens a protected email," she instructs with a wave of her hand.

I clap my binder closed with a sigh. I don't hear the conference door open.

"Ms. Lopez, pardon my interruption." Sebastian Smythe's silky-too-smooth voice permeates the room.

"What is it, Sebastian?" my mother responds without slowing in the notes she's typing on her laptop.

"There's a man here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he's aggressively insistent," he purrs, tipping his head with a smug smile in my direction. It's almost as if he knows that I've earned a place in the doghouse.

"Did you manage to gather his name?" Mom questions with disinterest.

"Russell Fabray. He was surprised that I didn't recognize his name. Then he rampaged about how he was an important person and shouldn't be made to wait. And this wasn't the way to treat a neighbor that you had for almost two decades." Sebastian seems exasperated by Russell's arrogance. It's a trait that Sebastian is known for and yet, he is unable to tolerate the quality in others. It probably irritated him that he was forced to play messenger boy when we had assistants who were charged with these tasks.

And just like that, any breath I have built in my chest to argue with my mother is gone.

I faintly register my mother's eyebrows knitting together in concern. Her fingers still on her keyboard and her gaze fixes on me.

She's the best reader in the business, and one of the most intelligent people I have ever met.

Have I ever told her that Russell Fabray's daughter shattered my heart into oblivion seven years ago? No. Does my lack of confession make her any less aware of the fact? No.

She knows. She knew when I was a 13-year-old hopelessly infatuated with my best friend. She knew when I was a lost 17-year-old who was too afraid to allow that best friend to love me.

When ma found me lost in the bottom of a bottle a few days after Quinn Fabray and I broke up, I know that she knew that it was because my secret relationship had ended.

She asks questions and she gives unsolicited advice, but I've never admitted anything. It would just be a confirmation of what she already knows, in any case.

But for those few moments, Maribel Lopez fixer extreme has disappeared, and she's just a mother in pure form.

It's been seven years.

I'm fine.

"Does he have anyone with him?" She asks the question I'm internally begging to know.

If Quinn is in the lobby right now, I might very well throw up.

People say you never forget your first love. But she, she is the only love I have ever been sure of.

I have loved since. Maybe once or twice. But not like that. Never like that.

"Two other men," Sebastian answers, and I swear that man is always a breath away from a smirk.

"Direct him to conference room 3."-the one without the windows-"Kindly inform him that his lackeys will not be admitted to our unscheduled meeting." She firmly requests.

"Yes, Ms. Lopez." Sebastian dutifully responds before he excuses himself to his task.

My mother stands, buttoning her suit jacket, making no effort to hide her appraisal of me.

I'm torn between pleading with her to allow me to sit in on the meeting, and rushing out the door without giving her a chance to further analyze my feelings on the matter.

It's been seven years.

I shouldn't still care.

The presence of her father at my work should just feel like one of those strange happenings that are natural consequence of life.

But it doesn't. It doesn't feel like a queer random thing. It feels like I would do anything to push my way into that conference room to study his every facial expression just to see if I could find her within them. Seek out a mannerism with a hint of her in it. Hope for a smile that could provide me with a fraction of the warmth that hers once did.

It's especially strange because there are few people on this earth that I despise more than Russell Fabray.

He is the one who raised Quinn to believe that she needed to meet his every expectation. He had instilled the fear of being different within her.

Sebastian is back before my mother can decide exactly how to approach her read of me. I'm grateful. He opens the door for his boss, and his eyes are on me as soon as she exits.

"Don't you have work to attend to? I doubt Relcon is paying you to stand there looking constipated," he taunts, but I'm no mood.

"Screw you, Smythe," I mumble as I finish gathering my things.

"Oh honey, if either of us played for the suitable team our sex would be epic. Unfortunately for you, we're destined for snark and not sex."

Sebastian is perfect for this job. He doesn't hesitate. No moral dilemma gives this man pause. I'm almost envious of it.

He's definitely cold-hearted, and he holds his extra year of seniority over me whenever he finds the opportunity.

"I would never have sex with you, Sebastian. I can barely stand to be a fellow 'Gladiator in a suit' with you. You're slime." I walk to the door, and near his much taller figure.

He laughs the condescending, albeit somehow still charming, laugh of his before retorting.

"You're not a Gladiator. You're a Gladibaby in four inch knock-offs. Now go crawl to do your mommy's bidding," he sneers.

"Look a little closer, my Gay Disney Prince. They're real, unlike those shiny veneers you're rocking." I'm engaged in our typical back and forth banter now, and I'm grateful to the smug bastard because my mind isn't completely on the man in the windowless conference room.

"Bitch."

"Asshole."

"I'll see you when you get back. Are you going to still make your coffee run or shall I grab you something from the cart?" he offers. Coffee is one favor that we never hesitate to provide for the other. As the newest associates, we both need it to survive.

"Cart." I sigh. It's shit compared to my usual, but I know that I can't waste time making my usual run to the place down a few blocks from our office.

With a nod of acknowledgement from him, I head to speak with Renee on my way out of the office.

It's been over two weeks since Russell Fabray made his presence known in our office. My mother has managed to make herself especially unavailable to me. The most I've been able to get out of her is that Russell wanted to hire us for a job for his gubernatorial campaign that she was unwilling to do.

It doesn't make any sense. Men like Russell Fabray are our bread and butter.

In my typical style, I don't talk about his appearance to anyone. Not to my roommate and best friend, Puck, nor to any of my other close friends.

What's a girl to say anyway? I had a minor panic attack because my ex's, who I haven't seen since the day we broke up, father came into the office?

I am, in general, a sane and rational girl, although sometimes my temper can be quick and my insults can be biting. I can't properly explain this to myself, I definitely can't offer an explanation to someone else.

But I need to refocus. I want to be as successful as possible here, even though that means working over 60 hours a week. Even though it means that I haven't had sex in two months (which is a very long time in my world).

My feet are tired, and my back hurts by the time 7 p.m. rolls around. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I shake out my hands in an attempt to make myself more alert.

"Does that help? Does all of that chair gyrating wake your pedestrian ass up?" Sebastian asks at the desk next to me. As the newest associates, we have to share an office, which at times, is incredibly annoying given Sebastian's arrogant demeanor.

"No, but shoving my heel up your ass would sure do the tri-"

A displeased Maribel Lopez clears her throat by the propped open office door.

Whoops.

"Sebastian. Leave us for moment, please." She politely demands, and Sebastian all but scrambles to do her bidding. Such an ass kisser.

"My pleasure, Ms. Lopez." It wouldn't surprise me one iota if he were to bow. He removes the door stopper on his way out to provide us with more privacy.

"My goodness that kid is a snake," she smiles down at me, and I know in that instant, that we are not having a boss to underling discussion.

"I'm sure that's why you hired him."

"Pretend I am not your boss for a couple minutes here, mija. I have something for you. I debated for days now about whether I should show this to you," she begins, and her posture, and the softening of her features remind me of my mother rather than my demanding boss. This woman is reminiscent of the mother who tried her best, despite her lack of skill, to cook for me, and the mother who would ask me how my studies were going in the apartment I shared with her through my first couple years of college.

I raise both eyebrows in confusion as my mother deliberately steps out of her HBIC mode. She looks so very apprehensive.

"What is it?" I swallow.

"When I refused Russell's proposal the other week, he stormed out of the office. He left this."

It's a seemingly harmless manila folder that she sets down on my desk. She is careful to rest it on top of my shortest pile of papers.

What could Russell possibly need to fix for his campaign that she would feel the need to show me?

"Listen to me. I love you. Go home early tonight, and point anyone to me if they give you trouble about it tomorrow." She leans down to kiss the part of my hair, grazing my cheek with a troubled hand.

She's scaring me.

She leaves without waiting for me to open the flap. Ever impatient, I flip the folder with just two of my fingers, as if I expect the contents to attempt to bite into my flesh.

It's a private investigator's report. I've seen many of them before in my over year and a half working here.

I place it to the side before reading its contents.

Fuck.

It's her.

It's the woman who I once considered to be the love of my life. There are dozens of pictures of her. Her hair is much shorter than I remember. It's choppy, and it frames her flawless face perfectly. In these pictures she's holding hands, kissing, smiling with three different women, the dates stamped purposefully on every frame.

In public.

Out in the open for the world to see.

No wonder Russell Fabray would consider this to be a threat to his gubernatorial campaign considering the extremely conservative platform he is running on.

God she's gorgeous, and she looks so happy and at peace with herself.

What did I expect?

Who knows when she gave the big "fuck you" to her father and decided to be open with her sexuality? Did I really expect her to call me up when she was ready?

Had I held this irrational hope this entire time that one day she was going to come to her senses and come running all corny and dramatic like into my arms?

I set my glasses down to the side of the folder, and I take a deep breath.

I can't squeeze the pad between my thumb and forefinger hard enough to keep me grounded in the present.

Seven Years Ago

Bang.

Bang.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I groan, slurring together a string of curses, but I make no motion to answer the door.

She's going all Sheldon Cooper on the door, and begins to shout my name between each knock.

I'm not having it.

Nope. Go away.

Eventually she gives up with the niceties that she is normally so partial to, and Rachel Berry charges through my front door.

"I banish you back to the Shire!" I throw out my finger as if to show her the way out.

"Santana, what are you doing up there?" she inquires from below, and I answer by taking yet another swig from my bottle.

I'm chilling on the spiral staircase that leads up to the loft, and my legs are draped over the side of the steps between the railings. I can't recall the last time I moved from this space I have made for myself.

It seems like a good place to be. It's the limbo area of the apartment that I share with my mom. I'm parked right in the middle of a place designed purely to transition someone from one floor to the next. But, I sure as hell ain't trying to go anywhere.

I watch without interest as she surveys the apartment. There are a few liquor bottles strewn around the room, and some discarded clothes but otherwise it isn't that bad.

"Leave," I growl from the landing. I don't need or want her here judging me.

"Noah called me. He said that you haven't been answering his texts or calls for days. I thought that you were probably ignoring me, but hearing that you weren't responding to him either worried me," she explains, eyeing me warily.

I hate how she referred to Puck as Noah. That's a name for only Puck's mom and I to use.

Also, I fucking hate the way she's looking at me. She doesn't know what I'm going through. She knows nothing.

"Don't care," I urge against the neck of my bottle.

"Yes you do. You care about him, and you even care about me. Why have you been drinking alone in your apartment for days?" she questions as she begins collecting the bottles around the room.

"Why have you been annoying for years?" I counter with a loopy smile.

And oh how she has been. She's been loud, pushy, and obnoxious for years, and now here she is barging her way into my space during my greatest moment of vulnerability. I could drop this bottle on the tip of her sizable nose for that fact alone.

"I'm coming up there to bring you down," she warns, and I scowl.

"If you come up here, the only thing you will be doing is dying," I threaten.

She chooses wisely, and doesn't attempt to climb the stairs, but she scurries around the apartment mindlessly for a few minutes before resting her body on the sofa.

I'm quickly running out of alcohol, which is unfortunate, because I do not want to be on the same floor as my pestering intruder below.

I lean back, hitting my head on the landing with a thump. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Why couldn't I drink enough to forget?

It's been four days since I left Quinn with a broken heart in her dorm in New Haven. The pain only seems to grow with each passing hour.

Rachel stays at my apartment without my permission. She only leaves for her classes and her voice lessons. She makes every attempt to feed me. Most of them are unsuccessful. I think she fears that if she leaves me by myself for too long, I'll be dead when she returns.

She rarely stops talking.

I think it's day 9 of my misery, when my mom returns from France. I haven't attended a single class since I returned from New Haven. I'm not exactly aware of my own schedule and certainly not that of others. Due to recent events, it completely slipped my mind that she was due home today.

I can hear her voice, but thanks to the vodka, things are becoming fuzzier by the second. Good. Fuzzy is an improvement.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lopez," Rachel greets in her usual overly polite manner.

"I assume those legs belong to my daughter." I can only see the top of my mother's head but from her voice, she is not pleased. I swing my legs as a form of response to her.

"They do." Rachel's voice sounds heavy. I know I've been scaring her, but fuck, I never asked her here in the first place.

"And you are?"

"Oh, my apologies. I am Rachel Berry. I'm a friend of Santana's. We were in Glee Club together, and-" she explains, and I know she's about to ramble on about the complicated intricacies of our friendship, but I cut her off before she can make my mom feel awkward like she does everyone else.

"We're not friends," I contest, cringing at the sound of my mother's keys clanging down hard on the counter.

Uh oh.

"Santana Gabriella Lopez are you drunk? Sit up!" she commands.

Somehow, despite the swimming of my head, I drag myself to a seated position, pulling myself up with my hands by the bars of the staircase.

"Mamá," I whine as she whips off her sunglasses to get a better appraisal of me.

"You look homeless," my mother observes, and gives Rachel a searching look as if to ask what is going on with me.

"We aren't the sort of friends where she opens up to me about her life," Rachel answers my mother's look with a hopeless shrug and shake of her head.

"We're not really friends!" I shout, and move the liquor bottle to hide it behind my back, as if my mom has not already noticed it.

It's a lie though. As much as I have fought against it the past few years, Rachel is definitely a friend. But I'm drunk, and sad, and angry, and the Hobbit is now discussing my issues with my mother. So fuck her.

"Who does she open up to?" my mother asks Rachel and I scoff. It is pathetic that my mother doesn't even know that much about my life.

"She seems the closest to Quinn and Noah," Rachel responds.

That name. Fuck.

My eyes are no longer dry, and they are not under my control. I'm not capable of listening to whatever exchange the two tiny women have next. Until her name is spoken again.

"Hmm…that's strange. It says that her phone is no longer in service," Rachel hums beneath me.

She had threatened to call someone dozens of times while she had been staying here, but I had warned her that I would disappear and she would never find me again if she did. I guess my mom is giving her the extra confidence to go against my wishes.

I had even made her text Puck to tell him that I was okay, and just really busy with school. Sober Santana would never have lied to him like that.

"Noah, it's Rachel. I went to Santana's like you requested and she is in poor form."

"Yes. I know. We lied to you. Bad shape. Yes. I'll place you on speakerphone. Be polite. Mrs. Lopez is here," Rachel converses before popping Puck on speakerphone.

"Lopez!" His voice crackles through the apartment, and I smile weakly.

"Puck," I whimper, even though I knew he can't hear me. The sound of his voice is my lifeline.

Maybe that is why I had refused to take any of his calls lately. I didn't want to be conscious.

The occupants of the room both gasp as I hop over the railing, landing not so gracefully on my feet.

My mom is about to go into lecture mode, but she steadies me instead, grimacing at the alcohol permeating from my skin, I'm sure.

I steal the phone from Rachel, struggling with the screen to figure out how to take it off speakerphone. The Hobbit finally presses the proper button.

"Why did you fall off the grid, babe? It was fucked up. You wouldn't answer your phone, and Quinn's phone wouldn't even ring. My Jeep wouldn't make it all the way to New York. God damn it, Santana." I frown pathetically against the phone.

"I think she's changed her number," I slur.

"You sound trashed." He doesn't sound even the slightest bit amused at the notion. I almost giggle at the thought. Usually he's the one trying to get me drunk.

"Yup," I croak.

"How rough we talking here?" he asks, and even in my inebriated state I know what he's referring to. He knows there is only one person who could put me here.

"We're done." I step not so smoothly away from the other occupants of the room to say it. It feels like a harpoon to the heart to say it out loud.

"No fucking way," he curses, and I can hear his long exhale.

"Would I be like this if we weren't? I need you," I confess against the mouthpiece.

"I'll see if I can borrow ma's car. I think I have enough saved up for gas. I'll be there by tomorrow. Will you be okay until then?"

"You can't do that." I shake my head as if he can see it.

"Put me on speaker," he orders, and I narrow my eyes in confusion. I push buttons until his voice is once again loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Mrs. Lopez?" he calls out to my mother.

"Yes?" My mother stops whatever conversation she was having with Rachel.

"Santana keeps her fake ID in a hidden flap in her lady wallet thingy," he narcs, and I almost slap the phone.

"Whoa! Way to throw me under the bus, asshole," I growl.

"Language, mija!" Mom chastises. She finds her daughter piss drunk and she's worried about my language. Silly woman.

"I want you alive when I get there," he says with enough sincerity to make my eyes water again.

"I'm not letting you drive here," I contest.

"You don't have a choice," he asserts without leaving me any room for argument.

"He'll fly here. On me. Give me the phone so I can book it with him." My mother reaches out for the phone, and I reluctantly plop it into her hand before she promptly snatches the bottle from me with her free hand.

Present Day

I don't remember how I got home to my apartment.

Puck is occupying his usual space on our couch, and I can't find the words to greet him.

"Good to see you too, babe," he grunts, taking a swig from his water glass as he flips to a new channel.

He glances over his shoulder, and it only takes a second before his expression changes.

"What happened?" I hate that look of his. It reminds me of the face he made when he first saw me upon his arrival to the airport seven years ago.

I'm a 25-year-old professional. I don't need anyone to give me that look. Ever. Especially merely because I saw some pictures of my high school girlfriend frolicking about all out and happy with other women.

I halt his movement to stand with just one hand. I plop the file down on his lap and I head down the hall to my bedroom.

It takes him approximately three minutes before I hear his voice bellowing down the hall.

"I'll get the shot glasses!"