Prologue

Of all the sins I learned to hide, gluttony was the most harmless. A simple, almost innocent indulgence that allowed me to escape—even if only for a brief moment—the suffocating reality I lived in. On the unbearable heat of a Sunday in Rio, my refuge was a generous cup of strawberry ice cream. Cold, sweet, and almost innocent. Almost.

Sitting on the living room couch, the fan blowing in my face, I watched the poolside movement through the half-open window. My mother in an orange bikini, surrounded by tanned guests, hollow laughter, wet bodies, and sparkling wine glasses. The typical scene of her parties. The kind of gatherings that always made me feel like an intruder in her world. A life I never managed to belong to.

The laughter sounded empty to me, like a way to fill the uncomfortable silence that always existed between us. The ice cream slowly melted as I got lost in thought, trying—for just a few minutes—to forget what bothered me. The feeling of being there, yet so distant from everyone, consumed me.

The first spoonful still danced on my tongue when I heard the door open. A familiar sound, but now it felt threatening. Instinctively, I brought the ice cream cup to my chest, as if protecting it could somehow protect me too. A foolish reflex, but it was all I had.

“There you are, beautiful,” Marcelo said, walking in without ceremony. Dripping from the pool, wearing dark twill shorts, pale skin wet, and black hair soaked and messy. He came closer, with that overly wide, overly forced smile that made me want to run away every time I saw it.

Each of his steps left a wet trail on the floor, and I shrank back a little more, trying to control the anxiety rising inside me—a mix of discomfort and insecurity.

“I...” I tried to say, but my voice failed. I just smiled weakly and kept eating the ice cream, trying to seem indifferent, trying to shield myself from the invasion I knew was coming.

Marcelo came closer—too close now. The smell of pool water and beer mixed, making me dizzy. Before I could react, he snatched the spoon from my hand and shoved it into his mouth, as if that small gesture gave him some kind of right over me.

“Mmm… delicious,” he said, savoring it as if he were after something more than the taste. His eyes, however, weren’t focused on the ice cream—but on me. They scanned my body, barely hiding their interest, until they met my eyes, then my mouth. Something in that gaze exchange unsettled me. I knew what he wanted. I knew what he thought of me.

I swallowed hard, the bitter taste of humiliation spreading down my throat. His gesture was intimate, invasive, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to react. Deep down, all I wanted was for him to leave. Leave the room. Leave my life.

“Don’t do that again,” I muttered, eyes avoiding his.

“Oh, Mavi, it’s just ice cream… no need for drama,” he said, with a cynical grin.

I forced a smile, set the cup in the sink, and got up. I needed to get out of there, needed to get away, but before I could pass, he blocked the path for a second.

“In such a hurry? Running away from me now?” he asked, his eyes fixed on my chest in the gray tank top. His words made me tremble, but I just tried to move forward, not letting him see how much he was affecting me.

He stepped aside as if nothing had happened, but the tension stayed with me. Deep down, I knew this was just the beginning. I just wanted to be far from him.

In my room, I tried to focus. Anxiety still gripped me, but I knew the end of the academic term was approaching, along with tests and seminars. Still, my mind couldn’t stay on my studies. Marcelo’s gaze, his invasive attitude, kept replaying in my head.

His footsteps in the hallway broke my fragile concentration. The shadow of his feet appeared beneath the door, and then the click of the doorknob turning made my stomach twist. The damn broken lock—before, it hadn’t mattered. Now, it did.

“You got upset about that, huh?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“Marcelo, what are you doing here?” I asked, trying to sound firm, though my heart was racing.

“The door was ajar. You’re upset?” he lied, stepping closer, leaning his hip against my chair. The pressure on my shoulder brought a wave of discomfort that left me frozen.

“No, I’m just busy. You shouldn’t... my mom...” I tried, but he cut me off.

“Stop being such a nerd, Mavi. Let’s have some fun.” He looked at me, his eyes roaming shamelessly. “Your mom’s downstairs enjoying her friends. Relax. You don’t have to be alone... I can keep you company. Bet you miss some affection,” he whispered, his warm breath near my neck.

“Marcelo, get out of my room, please.” Before I could react, he bent down and kissed me. No warning. No permission.

That kiss froze me. It was a shock. The taste of beer, the hot breath, the immediate disgust. Something broke inside me in that instant. I shoved him hard, and the book flew off the table. The fright overwhelmed me, and the scream that escaped my lips was the reflex of a deep pain.

“Get out of here!” I shouted, voice cracking. “Are you insane?”

He stepped back, raising his hands as if innocent, but his smile was disgusting, cynical.

“You’re really gonna ruin your mom’s day with a silly story like that?” he said, as if it were trivial.

Tears burned my eyes, but I swallowed them all—I wouldn’t be a victim. Not ever. One talk with my mother would be enough.

The door slammed as he left, and I stayed there. Alone. Heart pounding, breath shattered. Fear spread through every inch of my body. I was alone. And the feeling of having lost a piece of my safety inside my own home hit me like a crashing wave.

I wiped my mouth, as if trying to cleanse myself of germs. To me, Marcelo was no different. There were days when he didn’t even bother to hide his looks—and that, to me, crossed every line. It wasn’t in my head.

It was night when I came downstairs. My mother was in the living room, lying across his lap. I ignored Marcelo’s glances. I stared at the woman with her face hidden, tanned skin, straight messy blond hair.

“Mom, I need to talk to you,” I said.

Watching the way he massaged her back.

“Now, sweetheart?” she asked, her voice muffled.

“Yes, Mom, it’s…”

“Your mom’s not well, Mavi. Her blood pressure’s low,” he said, and I nodded.

“Tomorrow, darling, okay?”

What could I say? The conversation would happen eventually.

“Okay… tomorrow then.”