Romances de GemmaNat

The following evening, Amara steps into the same high-ceilinged hall.The scent is familiar: perfume, wine, citrus cleaner, faint undertones of polished wood. Her heels click lightly against the floor, a metronome marking her cautious advance. She keeps her gaze steady, scanning the room for exits, for people, for anomalies.She carries herself differently tonight—not more confident, not less cautious, but measured in a way that says she belongs, though only conditionally.The hall is busier than before. Clusters of professionals lean in close, words clipped, laughter sharp-edged. The chandeliers glint overhead, scattering fractured light across faces. Name tags shimmer like little shields.Amara adjusts hers again: AMARA ADEBAYO — Communications Consultant.She moves toward the drinks table, pretending to examine a tray of canapés while actually surveying the crowd.A flicker of recognition catches her eye. Across the room, he stands, tall, deliberate—Edward Harrington.She notices b

The key turns in the lock with a click that is louder than it should be.Amara freezes, one hand still on the knob, listening. Nothing. The hallway outside is empty, save for the faint hum of the building's heating system. A radiator clicks softly in response to the cold creeping through the walls. She lets out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.The flat smells exactly as it did the last time she was here—faint detergent, old carpet, and the lingering sharpness of last week's cooking. She steps inside, closing the door with practiced care, making sure the lock engages fully. Twice.Her bag hits the floor with a soft thud. She leans against the door for a moment, shoulders hunched slightly, as though the weight of the night might press her down. The flat is small: kitchenette to the left, bed against the far wall, a single chair pushed under a makeshift desk. Every surface holds a memory—bills stacked neatly, letters unopened, a notebook with her name scrawled on the co

The glass doors close behind Amara with a hush that feels louder than a slam.Warm air brushes her face—wine, perfume, citrus cleaner, something metallic beneath it all. The hall is already full, voices overlapping in careful enthusiasm, laughter clipped at the edges. She pauses just inside the entrance, fingers still wrapped around the strap of her bag, and listens.She does not move yet.This is the first thing she does at any event: listen long enough to decide which version of herself will survive the night.The accent comes first.She loosens her jaw slightly, lifts the soft weight of her tongue from where it naturally rests. Neutral. Mid-Atlantic, leaning British. Rounded vowels sanded down. No music in it. No warmth that could invite questions.Her shoulders follow. She rolls them back—not too straight. Straight suggests trying. Trying invites inspection. She lets her spine settle into something that looks like ease but costs her effort to maintain.Then the face.A small smile