Chapter 7

She needed to share it. She needed the sanity and the sharp humor of her best friend. She picked up her phone and dialed Albia's number.

"Hey there, liberated woman!" Albia's cheerful voice echoed down the line, without even a hello.

Theresa laughed, a genuine, light sound she hadn't made in a long time.

"You already know?"

"Of course I know. The gossipy universe vibrates with news like this. Besides, your voice sounds different. It seems... lighter. Tell me everything."

Theresa let herself fall onto the sofa, pulling her legs to her chest, and narrated the encounter with Ryan in front of the college. She described the ridiculous bouquet, his pathetic expression, and every cutting word she had spat out like a blade.

"And then, he was left there, with the roses morally wilting on the sidewalk. It was glorious, Albia. The book on Ryan is closed."

"And may the next volume be much more interesting!" Albia exclaimed. There was a brief pause, and when she spoke again, her voice was softer, probing. "And, speaking of more interesting volumes... any developments in the saga of your knight in shining armor and succulent torso? That Hector guy?"

Theresa felt a warmth rise up her neck. It was the question she had been asking herself. And, for the first time, there was no hesitation in her answer. The courage she had used against Ryan overflowed into this other front.

"I want him, Albia," she said, her voice firm and clear. "I know it's complicated. I know he's my father's friend, that there's an age difference, that it's extremely dangerous territory. But I want him. And I'm tired of pretending I don't. I'm tired of being the person who reacts. I want to be the person who acts."

On the other end of the line, Albia let out a low whistle.

"Holy shit, girl. You really decided to flip the switch, huh? Look, I should give you a sermon about ethics, broken hearts, and destroyed friendships... but, damn, after what that bastard Ryan did, you deserve a man who looks at you the way Hector looked at you in that kitchen. Just... be smart, okay? That's an emotional landmine."

"I know. But I'm not running from it anymore."

Hanging up, Theresa's determination was solidified like steel. The conversation with Albia had been the final push. Hector was a man of duty, of deep loyalties. He would hold back, he would fight his own desires out of respect for Johan. It was up to her to show that that bridge could, and should, be crossed.

He wouldn't come to her. She would have to go to him.

Without giving doubt time to settle in, she grabbed her phone. Her hands were steady, unlike Hector's. She found his contact. His picture was just the initial "H" on a gray background. Sober, mysterious, like the man. She tapped to call.

***

The ring of the cell phone cut through the silence of Hector's apartment like a scream. He was standing before the photo on the shelf, the whiskey still in his hand, locked in his internal conflict. The vibration, followed by the standard ringtone, made his heart leap violently against his ribs.

He turned, slowly, as if expecting the device to be a mirage. But it wasn't. The name "Theresa" glowed on the screen, a beacon in the dark of his thoughts. For a moment, he was paralyzed. It was as if his most secret desires had materialized to haunt him.

He let it ring three times. Each *brrr* felt like a drum beating in his chest. He needed to pull himself together. He needed to put on the armor of the protector, the family friend. Finally, with a hand remarkably steady considering the internal turmoil, he swiped to answer and brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" His voice came out hoarser and deeper than normal, laden with all the emotions he was trying to suppress.

"Hector." Her voice was a balm and a flame. Firm, but with an underlying softness that made him clench his fists. "I... just wanted to thank you again. For yesterday. And for today, indirectly."

He leaned back against the bar, needing the support.

"It was nothing, Anjinha." The nickname slipped out again, naturally, and he could almost feel her smile on the other end. "Are you... okay?"

"I'm better than okay. I'm free." The declaration was made with a conviction that warmed something inside his chest. "And starving. I haven't eaten anything today yet, besides the coffee you made."

Hector was silent, absorbing the words. He could perfectly imagine the scene: her in her apartment, perhaps still with the flush of victory on her cheeks, the whole world ahead of her. And then, came the pause. A loaded pause, full of unspoken possibilities. He could hear her light breathing in the background.

"Have you..." she began, and there was a thread of nervousness in her voice now, a deliberate vulnerability that was more seductive than any confidence. "Have you had dinner yet?"

His world shrank to that earpiece, to that voice.

"No," he replied, the word coming out as a rough noise.

"I can cook a little better than I let on. At least I can make a decent spaghetti." she continued, and he could visualize the mischievous smile on her lips. "How about... you come here? For dinner. As payment for my rescue debt."

Hector's heart stopped. There it was. The invitation. The line being drawn in the sand. All his mind, all his code of honor, shouted in unison. NO. It was a trap, a mistake of catastrophic proportions. Johan. The friendship. His integrity. The danger of hurting her. A cacophony of warnings and denials.

But his mouth, his traitorous mouth, driven by a desire deeper and stronger than reason, acted on its own. Before he could think, before he could form a polite refusal, the words had already escaped, in a deep, compromising whisper that echoed in the silent room.

"What time?"

On the other end of the line, Theresa let out the breath she was holding in a soft, victorious sigh.

"Is eight o'clock good for you?"

"Perfect," he heard himself say, his brain already watching the scene from outside his body, in a state of shock.

"Then I'll expect you. See you soon, Hector."

"See you soon."

The line went dead. Hector lowered the phone slowly, looking at the dark screen as if it contained all the secrets and damnations of the universe. His hand, now, was visibly trembling. His eyes were dragged back to the photo on the shelf, to Johan's trusting, smiling face. Guilt stabbed him, sharp and nauseating.

"It's just dinner," he murmured to the photograph, to the empty apartment, to himself.

It was the most blatant lie he had ever told. The echo of his own question "What time?" burned in his mind, not as a simple question, but as a promise of paradise and a sentence of condemnation. He had agreed to cross the bridge. And now, all that remained was to wait and see if it would hold his weight or if it would collapse, taking with it everything he had built.

On the other side of the city, Theresa Michaels let the phone slip from her fingers onto her lap. A wide, intense, and deeply victorious smile spread across her face, lighting up her honey-colored eyes. She had made the move. He had accepted.