The Dream That Should Not Be

POV Camila.

“Ah, yes—like that … deeper, Javier. I want it deeper … ah, Javier ….”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

The sharp rap of knuckles against wood jolted me awake in an instant—ripping me from the scorching dream that had, with cruel persistence, haunted my nights as of late.

I gasped, releasing a long and trembling breath into the half-dark stillness of my room. A cold sweat had drenched every inch of my skin, leaving behind a clammy, unsettled sensation, compounded by the disorienting weight of how achingly real that dream had felt. Within it, Javier—my older foster brother—had kissed me with a tenderness so exquisite, so intense, so utterly demanding, that the phantom heat of his touch still lingered in my body, waking an ache in me that no amount of rationality could immediately silence.

“Camila, are you up yet, sweetheart? Didn’t you say today is your first day at work?”

The gentle, reminder-laced voice drifting from beyond my door snapped me upright. Damn it all—I had nearly forgotten. Because of that wretched dream, I had almost let it slip from my mind entirely: today was my first day on the job.

“Yes, Mama, I’m up!” I called back, voice pitched high enough to carry through the door, struggling to keep the raw, sleep-roughened edges from my tone. If I didn’t respond now, this saintly middle-aged woman—the one who had taken me in and made me her own—would worry herself into knocking without end.

“Get yourself down quickly, or your brother will scold you for being late,” she added, her footsteps already retreating down the hall.

“Yes, Mama …”

I exhaled again—long and slow—staring up at the ceiling with hollow eyes. Rather than throwing off the sheets and heading to the bathroom as I ought to have done, my fingers moved of their own treacherous accord. Touching my cheek, drifting down to my lips, grazing the warm column of my neck, my chest—where my heart hammered relentlessly—and lower still, to that tender, sensitive place that had no business remembering a dream. The warmth of it clung on, shameless and uninvited. I could still feel the possessive press of Javier’s lips, the weight of his hands in my imagination, indulging every nerve in my body.

“This is madness. Why do I keep thinking these terrible thoughts every single night? This should never happen,” I whispered to myself, self-reproach laced thick with frustration. I knew, with perfect clarity, how wrong this was. Profoundly, unforgivably wrong.

Yes—I knew we were not bound by blood. Not a single drop of Villareal blood ran through my veins. Yet this family had poured more kindness upon me than I had ever dared to hope for. They were the ones who had rescued me, who had brought me into this grand house and wrapped me in wholehearted love when I was already an orphan—already utterly alone in the world.

I should have known my place. I should have buried this feeling deep and permanent, and looked upon him as nothing more than an older brother, a protector. So why, then—why did this wretched heart of mine insist on loving him as a man? Why did my fantasies so boldly conjure the image of lying with him, night after shameless night? And worse still … Javier already had a fiancée. A woman chosen for him by the family.

****

The atmosphere at the breakfast table that morning was suffocatingly still, broken only by the occasional chime of silverware against fine porcelain. The air felt thick enough to press against the chest, and the food in my mouth turned tasteless.

“Why on earth did you go through the general application process with everyone else, sweetheart? That company is a family business. All you had to do was say the word to your brother, and you would have had whatever position you wanted—without a single headache,” Mama said, breaking the silence at last, her gaze warm with affection and frank bewilderment.

At her words, I managed only a thin smile, concealing the sudden awkwardness that gripped me. My eyes drifted to the far end of the table—to Javier’s face. He sat in silence, unhurried, attending to his coffee. As always, his expression was flat and cold and utterly untouchable. And yet I knew, buried somewhere in the depths of him, there lived someone warm and kind. I simply couldn’t fathom why, over these past two years, he had become as impenetrable as a glacier—especially toward me.

“It’s all right, Mama. I don’t want people at the office thinking I got in through the back door. I want everyone to know that I can stand on my own two feet—that I’m here on my own merit,” I answered, willing my voice to sound steady and self-assured, even as my fingers beneath the table crumpled the fabric of my skirt into a tight, anxious fist.

“Let her be, Mama. If that’s what she wants, don’t push her. She’s grown now—she knows right from wrong,” Javier cut in, his voice low and baritone and crisply decisive. He didn’t so much as glance in my direction as he spoke. He was already rising from his chair, adjusting his immaculate blazer.

“Eh, Javier—aren’t you going to take Camila with you?” Mama asked, startled by his abrupt departure.

“She’s grown, Mama,” he replied curtly—and walked away without so much as a formal farewell, without a single glance cast my way.

I pressed my hands tightly together beneath the table, concealing the whitening of my knuckles as I fought to contain the wave of pain that crashed through me without warning. Swallowing down the knot of tightness that threatened to block my throat entirely, I forced a small, composed smile onto my face for Mama’s sake. Because once, his manner toward me had been so warm, so fiercely protective—if I so much as sneezed, he would be the first to panic. But now, everything had turned upside down. He felt like a stranger, as though I were a stain he was determined to scrub from his line of sight.

“I can get there on my own just fine, Mama,” I said, keeping my voice gentle and even, hoping to ease her worry.

“Take the driver with you. Let him see you there,” Papa suggested quietly from his end of the table, where he had sat in silence throughout.

“I’ll take a cab, Papa—it’s quicker through the back roads. Don’t worry, either of you. I’ll see you later!”

****

I had assumed Javier was long gone—that he’d sped off in his car some time ago. Yet the moment I stepped through the front door and onto the terrace, my feet faltered on the steps. There he was: standing tall and still beside his vehicle, as if he had never left.

In his all-black suit and trousers, fitted to perfection against the clean lines of his frame, he looked like a man who commanded the world simply by existing within it. His features were sharp and angular—a strong jaw, a resolute brow—and under the gilded wash of morning light, he was breathtaking in a way that was wholly unfair.

I had always worshipped that face. The very face that had, curse it all, been slipping into my dreams and dismantling my sleep night after relentless night.

In that fleeting instant, a foolish, tender hope rose in my chest. I told myself he had waited—that perhaps he meant to give me a ride after all. I told myself the coldness at the breakfast table had only been a mask; that somewhere beneath it, he still cared. But then he spoke—and the words that fell from his lips froze every drop of warmth in my blood, reaching all the way down to my feet.

“Don’t let anyone find out that we know each other. At the office, you are to conduct yourself professionally at all times. Understood?”

His voice was low and measured and heavy with the absolute authority of a man who expected no contradiction.

Stiffly, I gave a small nod, swallowing something that tasted like bitterness distilled. “Understood, Javi.”

“There is no such name at the office!” he cut in sharply, his voice climbing a precise octave. His eagle-sharp eyes bore into me without mercy, as though I had just committed an egregious offense. “Remember—at the office, you are nothing more than my subordinate. A junior staff member. You will address me accordingly.”

I nodded again, slow and careful, calling upon every last reserve of composure to steady the violent trembling in my knees. My hands gripped the strap of my bag in a white-knuckled hold, channeling all of the anguish spreading wild and sharp through my chest into that one small, silent act of endurance.

“Very well … Sir,” I breathed, barely above a whisper.

Having received the answer he wanted, Javier said nothing more—offered not even a formal nod of acknowledgment. He simply turned his back to me, climbed into his sleek black car, shut the door with a quiet thud, and pulled out of the driveway at speed. The vehicle cut through the morning streets without looking back, leaving nothing in its wake but the slow dissolve of exhaust into the golden air.

I stood there watching until even that faint trace of him had faded entirely. My chest was hollow—full of nothing and yet aching with everything—and guilt, heavy and manifold, pressed down upon me from every direction.

Because after al

l—who was I to dare hope for more?

****