Priscilla Martines
I came home at dawn, heels in hand, breath held hostage. Every floorboard felt like a betrayal, so I crept through the house like a thief — like a girl who knows her mother's wrath sleeps light. The door to her bedroom gave way under my fingers, slow and cautious. She was asleep. For once. No shouting, no judgment. Just her body slack in the sheets, mouth slightly open, limbs tangled. I exhaled — a real exhale, the kind that empties lungs and fear.
I climbed the stairs like a shadow, crossed the hallway without a sound, and once inside my room, I locked the door. Twice. Two clicks. Two shields. Two silences. I threw myself onto the bed, dress still wrinkled, skin still buzzing.
And then he came back. The stranger. His scent. His voice. His mouth. A night of fire. Not love — no. We don't know each other. We were drunk. We collided like storms, touched like we were drowning. And yet he lingers. In my skin. In my thoughts. Like a soft burn, like a secret I can't name.
I rose from the bed slowly, as if my body feared waking something — inside me, around me. The room still held the weight of the night, even though it hadn't witnessed it. I undressed with care, almost delicately, as if searching my skin for a fault, a mark, a clue. The dress slipped between my legs and pooled at my feet, foreign to this room, foreign to this house. It hadn't seen anything. Hadn't felt anything. It didn't know.
I tied my hair back — a neutral gesture, precise, almost cold. Then I crossed the room, naked, and stepped into the bathroom. The water ran over me without warmth, without comfort. I didn't shiver. I just wanted it gone. Him. The night. All of it.
I told myself the best thing would be to forget. Forget his hands, his mouth, his eyes. Forget that I existed differently, even for a few hours. Because it was nothing. Just a night of drunkenness. A slip. A blur. Nothing more.
I stepped out of the bathroom, skin still warm, hair damp against my shoulders. The morning light had settled into my room like it owned the place. I opened the wardrobe, pulled at the hangers, chose without thinking — black trousers, white shirt. Survival uniform. I had to get to work.
I reached for my phone on the dresser, but it buzzed before I touched it. The screen lit up. Brenda. I smiled. I answered.
"Come on, hurry," I said, half-laughing. "Last-minute meeting. I'm betting Suzanna's behind it again."
I sat on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under me, the other swinging gently. Brenda's voice came through, still soft with sleep.
"Don't worry," she said. "She's just bored without you."
I smiled again, but my gaze drifted to my neck. I lifted my hand instinctively. The pendant. My fingers brushed bare skin.
"Brenda… I need to tell you something. Something that happened last night."
My voice dropped. I touched my neck again, slower this time. And then I froze.
Wait. Where— Where is my pendant?
Brenda's voice turned playful.
"Well then hurry up and come spill the gossip," she teased.
I smiled, nodded to myself, and hung up. I finished dressing quickly — black trousers, white shirt, blazer over my shoulder. No way I was showing up late. Not with Suzanna prowling the office like she owned every breath I took.
But even as I buttoned my shirt, even as I slipped on my shoes, my thoughts kept circling. The pendant. Where had I left it?
I tried to rewind the night. Not the hotel. His room. That unfamiliar space — too clean, too quiet, too far from anything I knew. His hands. My neck.
I shook my head, grabbed my bag, forced myself to move. But the feeling stayed. That small weight I always wore. Gone.
And now, even dressed, even ready, I felt off-balance. I reached for my neck one last time. And the shock hit me.
"Where is my pendant?"
No time for a real breakfast. Just coffee, maybe a piece of fruit. Something to keep me going. I wash my hands without thinking, open one cupboard, close another. My movements are automatic, almost hollow.
And then it comes back. Her voice. Her words. Last night.
All the things she said. Cruel. Unprovoked. As if hurting me had become her only language.
I clench my jaw. Dry my hands slowly on a dish towel. And I tell myself the best thing would be to leave. Slip out quietly. And above all… not run into Meredith.
The road blurs past the window — grey, shapeless, without promise. I've been in the taxi for about thirty minutes. The driver doesn't speak. Neither do I. I watch buildings slide by, rushed faces, traffic lights blinking without rhythm. My neck still burns. The pendant. I can't think about anything else.
The taxi nears the city center. The streets sharpen, grow colder. And then, at the corner of the avenue, the building comes into view. Glass. Steel. Silence. Aurealis Global Trade. One of the most prestigious export firms in the country. Prestige, pressure, appearances.
I take a deep breath. I already know the day will be long. And I already know I'm not fully here.
As soon as I step through the glass doors of Aurealis Global Trade, the air shifts. Cold, calculated, scented with burnt coffee and ambition. Justine is waiting near reception, leaning against a column like he's got all the time in the world.
"Wow, you look like someone who barely survived a terrible night," he says with a teasing smile.
I glance up at him, not quite in the mood to play.
"I had the worst night of my life."
He doesn't answer right away. He hands me a paper cup, still warm.
"This'll bring some color back to your face."
I take it, grateful but unconvinced. I blow gently on the rim, then mutter:
"What I really need is a proper breakfast."
And then, as if summoned by my thoughts, Brenda bursts in. Frivolous. Joyful. Her bag swings against her hip, sunglasses still perched on her nose — even indoors.
"My darlings! You're already here? I have a thousand things to tell you!"
Justine bursts out laughing, and so do I. We hug briefly — like two allies bracing for battle. And then she arrives. Suzanna. Tyrannical. Hysterical. Perfectly cast in her own drama.
Arms crossed. Eyes rolled. Heels clicking.
"If you're done with your little soap opera, get to the meeting room. We don't have time to waste here."
Her voice slices through the air like a blade. She looks at me with that contempt she reserves for people she can't stand — without even knowing why. Then she spins on her heel.
Brenda, true to form, mimics her walk, exaggerating every step. Justine stifles a laughand whispers:
"Best we get going."
I nod, but my fingers drift instinctively to my neck. The pendant. Still missing. And I don't know why Suzanna hates me so much. But I feel it. Like a burn beneath the skin.
A few hours later, the meeting is finally over. I'm exhausted. Not from the content — from the atmosphere. Suzanna didn't yell. She didn't need to. She spoke slowly, with that calm that cuts deeper than shouting. Changes. Restructuring. And most of all… a new director. Coming soon.
I didn't ask questions. No one did. But I can feel something brewing. Something heavy.
Brenda and I meet at the café down the street. She's already seated, sunglasses pushed up, smile wide. But this time, I'm the one who needs to talk.
I sit across from her, heart still tight. She looks at me, curious, ready to launch into her stories. But I cut her off.
"I'm the one with things to tell you," I say, dropping my bag. "And they're not small."
She raises an eyebrow, intrigued. And I don't even know where to begin.
I drop my bag, sit across from Brenda, and I don't wait. No buildup. No soft landing.
"I made love to a stranger last night"
She blinks — one beat too long. Her smile freezes, then returns, gentler, more cautious.
"Wait… what?"
I don't repeat it. I don't need to. I look at her, and she knows it's not a joke, not a provocation.
My heart pounds harder, but I don't look away. I want her to know. I need someone to know.
Brenda's mouth falls open in shock. She freezes for a second, then leans in, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and curiosity.
"Wait… what? How did that even happen? And… how was it?"
I glance away, fingers tracing the rim of my cup.
"I wasn't exactly myself," I murmur. "I'd been drinking. Too much. I was… somewhere else. I remember flashes. Movements. A voice. And then… nothing clear."
I look back at her, more serious now.
"What's really messing with me isn't what I did. It's that I can't stop thinking about him. This stranger. Someone I know absolutely nothing about."