The Nightmare

Normal women spend their Friday nights in little black dresses, torturous heels, and overpriced champagne.

Me? I was on the couch in an oversized hoodie, stuffed with takeout, a lavender sheet mask on my face, watching a serial killer docuseries while FaceTiming with a three-and-a-half-year-old who had the energy of five iced espressos.

Honestly, not that different.

“And then I ate the pink marshmallow chocolate, and Daddy said I could only take three, so I took four,” his tiny voice crackled through the speaker.

I laughed. “Ash, you know that’s not a very diplomatic solution, right?”

“What’s diplo—what, Mami?”

“It means you’re like a tiny politician who knows how to bend the rules.”

“I’m not a politician!” he shouted. “I’m a dinosaur kid!”

“Right. My bad. I stand corrected.”

His face filled the screen. Chubby cheeks, messy jet-black hair, familiar blue eyes, and that bottom lip pout he gave when he didn’t get his way.

Alessio. Ash.

Almost four. As talkative as me, unfortunately. But with a face that… yeah. If Zane Romano ever wanted a DNA test, all he’d need to do was look at this kid for sixty seconds and fall off his damn chair.

Behind him, I heard a man laugh. “He made his grandpa drink strawberry milk because apparently, it’s a ‘superhero drink.’”

Erick’s face appeared on the screen. My best friend, my protector, my emotional decoy for the last four years.

“Superheroes drink protein,” I shot back. “Strawberries are a salad ingredient, not a main beverage.”

Erick chuckled. “You ever tried saying no to this kid? He made me wear a purple hat to the market today. A purple hat, Dianna. On a Friday. In Medellín. I looked like a gay milkman.”

“Well, you are gay and he is a tiny dictator,” I replied, sipping my tea. “You’re not a victim, Erick. You’re part of the regime.”

Ash squealed in the background, “I’m the dinosaur president! Daddy said so!”

“And Daddy needs a fashion intervention, immediately.”

Erick set Ash down and leaned closer to the camera. “You sure you’re okay in New York? Your face looks… snarky. But with a light sprinkle of depression.”

“I told my boss I had stomach cramps so I could skip a gala tonight. Now I’m wearing a lavender sheet mask and watching a documentary about a guy who turned his victims into hotdogs. I’m thriving, Rick.”

“Yup. Totally healthy.”

Ash yelled from the background, “Mami, call me again later, okay? But not too late! Abuela says you work like a robot!”

I grinned. “I’m not a robot. I’m just a human who has lawyering in her bloodstream.”

“My blood is dinosaur!”

“Of course it is, baby.”

I ended the video call, just as two knocks hit my door, followed by the voice I hated and missed all at once.

“Dianna freaking Rosa! You think you can skip tonight’s gala with a lame excuse like ‘stomach pain’?”

The door burst open. Winona stormed in, holding a sparkly black dress and a pair of heels that were definitely forged by the devil.

“I have a spare key! And I know you lied! You’re not sick. You’re insane if you’d rather stay home watching murder docs than attend a high-society party with catering from Le Bernardin!”

I leaned my head on my hand. “Miss Psychopath, I just finished FaceTiming my son. I cleared it with my law partner. The world’s not gonna implode if I N*****x for one damn night.”

Winona dropped the dress into my lap. “Wrong. The world might not end, but my dignity as your best friend will if you don’t show up.”

“I haven’t even washed my hair.”

“I brought dry shampoo and Jo Malone perfume. You can become a woman in seven minutes or I’m leaking your hard drive full of old Zane Romano photos to the public.”

I stared at her flatly. “It’s not a hard drive. It’s an encrypted folder.”

“You think I don’t know your password is ‘TheOneThatGotAway69’? Please.”

“You need therapy.”

“You need a blowout.”

She crossed her arms, looking at me like the angel of death who’d gladly set my apartment on fire if I didn’t obey.

“If you don’t come,” she said slowly, “I’ll call your Abuela and tell her you’re seeing an atheist. You know she’ll be on the next flight and bless your apartment with salted holy water.”

I sighed. Deeply. Stared at my dead laptop screen. At my drying sheet mask. At the gown that sparkled a little too loudly to ignore.

“How many minutes do I have?”

Winona smiled like a demon who just won a soul at auction. “Ten. And I’m doing your makeup so you don’t waste time.”

“Oh God. I’m gonna regret this.”

“You’ll regret it more if you miss the foie gras.”

+++++++++

I stood in the middle of a ballroom full of people who could probably buy a private island just by selling one painting off their dining room wall.  Jazz music drifted through the air like the soundtrack to a noir film. The chandelier overhead looked like a museum artifact, probably stolen from one, too.

Beside me, Winona smiled like a socialite fairy godmother. But her fingers were pinching my arm, like a personal memo straight from hell.

“Smile,” she whispered through her perfectly practiced grin at a group of men in designer suits.

“I am smiling,” I whispered back, nudging the corners of my lips up exactly five millimeters.

“Not enough. You look like you want to sue everyone in this room.”

“That’s not a look. That’s a goal.”

“Dianna.”

I exhaled.

All around me, people were deep in polite conversations that were really just social calculus.

It was a charity gala, sure, but everyone knew the truth. This was a reputation war.

Who donated the most. Who got seated at the front. Who posed with who.

And in the middle of it all, I stood there in a backless gown that was way too expensive to be comfortable and heels that could qualify as torture devices. Thanks, Winona.

“Oh, and here she is,” said a voice I knew all too well, Mr. Hawthorne, CEO of the law firm I worked for.

The man was older than history, walking toward us with that polished, predatory smile.

“This is Dianna Rosa, our rising star. Only three weeks at headquarters and she’s already made two major Wall Street firms back off litigation. Judge Sloan even called her ‘the sharpest lawyer in the sharpest heels.’”

I gave a small smile. “That’s because I wear 5-inch heels and have a 12-second patience threshold.”

They laughed. A little too loud for a joke that mild. But of course, rich people love to look like they’re having fun.

Next to Mr. Hawthorne stood three middle-aged men with watches the size of their emotional availability. One mentioned the name of his company. I didn’t retain it. Another said he’d heard of me before. I pretended to be flattered.

Then someone, maybe the event coordinator, maybe the angel of death, stepped onto the small stage at the front of the ballroom and picked up the mic.

“Thank you for joining us tonight at the annual Horizon for Children gala. We’re honored to be supported by partners across the legal, banking, and global energy sectors.”

The jazz faded. Heads turned toward the stage.

I raised my champagne glass, not in toast, but as a distraction from the growing ache in my feet.

“And this year, for the first time, our main sponsor comes from the oil and aviation sector…”

Okay. Safe.

I even started eyeing the canapé tray. I needed carbs before I tripped in these shoes and crushed someone’s dental bridge.

“…please join me in welcoming and thanking… Romano Imperium Group.”

My glass stopped halfway to my lips.

I froze.

Winona’s eyes widened like they’d been hit with a taser. “Oh shit.”

Mr. Hawthorne gave my back a casual pat, completely unaware that my name had just been whispered back to me by a trauma wearing a sponsor’s badge.

“Romano Imperium has been a key partner in developing child facilities across four countries, including Indonesia and Colombia…”

Colombia.

Of course. Because why not? Why not serve up my entire backstory on a silver platter and spotlight it in front of five hundred strangers?

I turned. Slowly.

And across the room, he stood....wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, posture loose like nothing in the world could touch him.

Dark hair. Sharp jaw.

And eyes...those ice-blue eyes like a punishment from the gods.

Zane Romano.

Standing alone. No Amelia. No entourage. Just him. A glass of wine in his hand… and a stare locked right on me.

Familiar.

Unflinching.

Dangerous.

Winona nudged me, gently. “He looks like... holy hell... even hotter now.”

“If you compliment him again,” I murmured, “I will dip your lipstick in the soup.”

She swallowed. “Do you… want me to, uh, pull you out of here?”