Chapter 3 – The Shine Before the Fall

Lyra

I don’t know when I crossed the line. I don’t know if it was me who crossed it… or if it was him who drew it towards me.

I remember his precise, insolent, patient hands.

His voice, low, biting, brushed against my neck like a warning.

That gaze, locked onto mine, promised me both loss and light.

The first caress was light, almost respectful.

A finger tracing the line of my jaw, a palm resting on my ribs as if to count my bones, my flaws. He didn’t rush. He observed me. Tasted me. As if he wanted to learn my language, the one I never speak aloud.

Then he moved closer. Closer still, so close that his breath made mine shudder.

He said to me:

— You can still leave.

But his hand was already holding mine.

And everything tipped.

He was not brutal.

But he was not gentle either.

He was everything I feared: whole, whole to the point of indecency.

His body slipped against mine with a certainty that took my breath away. Every movement, every pressure of his fingers on my skin felt preordained, as if he were reading my reactions before I lived them.

His mouth explored mine without restraint, demanding, almost cruel.

But he never ripped away. He took, slowly, until I offered him everything without struggle.

He glided his fingers down my spine as if he wanted to trace the exact path of my fall.

He kissed my knees, my hips, the insides of my wrists. Places that no one looks at. He whispered words in a language I didn’t know. And yet, I understood them.

I don’t know how many times he brought me to the surface, nor how many times I sank against him.

I just know that my nails left marks on his back.

That his mouth wrote my name in burning letters on every inch of my belly.

And for a moment, I believed I would disappear.

Or perhaps be reborn.

The night stretched out, outside of time.

The world faded away.

Nothing remained but this room, our entwined bodies, this breath in unison, and this bittersweet tearing between pleasure and madness.

And I held onto his shoulders as one might hold onto the inevitable.

I let him take me. Mark me. Steal something from me that I cannot name.

And he did.

Morning hits me like a slap.

The light is harsh. My body, heavy and sore. My thighs, my arms, my neck ache. My pride aches.

The sheet clings to my skin. It still carries his scent, that dry, woody perfume that sticks to my belly like a second betrayal.

And there, next to me, his slow, regular breathing.

He lies on his side, one arm carelessly draped over my hips, as if he had forgotten he was still holding me. His fingers brush my side, warm, unconscious. His dark hair falls over his forehead. He looks calm. Almost peaceful.

Almost vulnerable.

I watch him. Too long.

He has a dimple in his right cheek when he sleeps. A barely visible mark from the night on his collarbone—a kiss too forceful, perhaps mine.

One of my hairs is stuck to his chest, like a thread I haven’t cut.

I slowly pull away, with animal-like caution. I hold my breath as his arm glides across the mattress. He doesn’t wake up. A barely audible groan, then he turns onto his other side.

As if I had never been there.

The room is in disarray.

My dress from the night before is crumpled, my bra thrown over the chair, one shoe under the bed, the other by the door.

I gather my things like one gathers the debris of a mistake.

And then the phrase comes back to me.

Like a knife in the silence.

“I doubt you can afford a night with me.”

I close my eyes, my jaw clenched.

I search my jacket. Just a hundred euros.

Pathetic?

No. Perfect.

I fold them calmly. I place them on the nightstand, where his watch lay last night.

Then I take an old ticket, the wrinkled back of a taxi receipt. I write, slowly, coldly:

You are worth no more.

My writing is straight, neat, icy.

I look at him one last time.

He is still asleep.

I wonder what he will say when he reads this.

If he will smile.

If he will be furious.

I grit my teeth.

I have no pride left. Not after this night.

But I still have my teeth. And I know how to bite.

I leave the room without a sound.

Without a glance back.

The door shuts softly. Just enough for it to sound like a slap.

Outside, the sun is cruel.

The wind sticks my hair to my face, blinding me for a second.

But I do not cry.

I am alive. In pain, but alive.

And I know exactly where I’m going.

My sister.

She has answers to give me.

Accounts to settle.

And this time, I won’t ask.

I will take.

Alexandre

The slam wakes me. That sharp, precise sound, like a well-delivered slap.

I lie still for a second, still groggy, the crumpled sheets around me. The warmth on the mattress has changed. Something is missing. No, someone.

I reach out. Empty.

My body protests for a moment, then I sit up. The room is silent, but it is not a peaceful silence. It is that of abandonment. Of departure.

My gaze falls on the nightstand.

The bill.

And that paper.

I grab it.

You are worth no more.

I freeze.

One beat. Two.

Then I laugh. Choked.

No humor, just a remnant of astonishment and disbelief.

— Little wild one…

The word lingers on my tongue, sweet and furious at once.

I leap up. Naked. It doesn’t matter.

I stride across the room, searching for my phone. I find it at the foot of the bed. The screen lights up. I’m already dialing.

— Esteban?

(Silence.)

— Find me that woman. And quickly.

(He inhales.)

— No, I don’t know her name. But she left a scratch on my back… and a slap on my nightstand.

I smile. Slowly. Coldly.

A predator’s smile that has spotted a too-audacious prey.

— That will be enough.

I hang up.

And I stand there, facing the closed door, the paper still in my hand.

No one leaves me like this.

Not without consequences.

And certainly not… without intriguing me.

She has awakened something.

And now, she will have to face it.