I entered the house walking on tiptoe. The silence of the early morning hours was absolute, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator. There was no sign of Bianca; the lights were off, indicating she was already submerged in sleep. I went straight to the bathroom, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on my shoulders. I needed to wash all of it away. The smell of cheap alcohol, the lingering trace of cigarette smoke embedded in my clothes, and, above all, Margaret’s perfume mixed with the scent of sex that seemed glued to my skin. Under the hot water, I scrubbed myself hard, watching the foam carry away the remnants of a night that would change everything at the university. I lay down and passed out instantly.
The next morning, the alarm clock was an unwanted intruder. I dragged myself out of bed and went down to the kitchen. As had already become our routine, Bianca was there, her back to me, focused on preparing coffee. The aroma of freshly ground beans helped clear my foggy mind.
“Good morning,” I murmured, sitting at the table.
“Good morning, Luke,” she replied, turning around with a soft smile, though her eyes still carried that gentle glow I had been cultivating in her.
“So?” I asked, pouring myself a cup. “How was your day yesterday with the plug? Were you able to keep it in the whole time?”
Bianca blushed lightly, a reaction I loved to provoke.
“At first it was really strange… It felt like I was going to lose my balance at any moment. But after a few hours, I got used to it. The weirdest part was taking it out to sleep and putting it back in this morning. It feels like the body misses it when it’s gone.”
“That’s part of the process,” I replied, watching her. “If you can keep it in today and tomorrow without discomfort, I think we can move on to the medium size over the weekend. What do you think?”
She nodded in agreement, accepting the progression like a good student.
“Why did you get home so late yesterday?” she asked, trying to sound casual as she sat across from me.
“I went out for drinks with a friend at a bar,” I answered, keeping my voice steady. “We lost track of time talking, and then I came straight home.”
I omitted the details. I omitted the motel, the marks on Margaret’s ass, and the fact that this “friend” was my advisor and one of the brightest minds at the university. Some truths are too heavy to be shared.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated on the table. It was an email notification from the department. I read it quickly: the professor for the first class of the morning had canceled due to health issues. I would only have two classes today, and the first one was already off the schedule.
Laziness hit hard. I looked at the screen and decided it wasn’t worth going to campus for just fifty minutes of a theoretical lecture. Acting on impulse, I opened my chat with Emily.
“Are you going to be home today?” I typed and sent.
“You’re not going to class?” Bianca asked, noticing my lack of urgency.
“The first one was canceled. And for the second… I think I’ll take the day off to rest. My body is still paying the price for yesterday.”
We finished breakfast in a calm atmosphere. Bianca finished getting ready, adjusted her posture—feeling the accessory I had made her wear—and left for work. I was alone in the quiet house. Sleep still weighed heavily on me. I went back to the bedroom, threw myself onto the unmade bed, and closed my eyes, waiting for Emily’s reply before allowing myself to fall asleep again.
The sleep was deep and dreamless, a necessary blackout to process the intensity of the previous night. I woke up only at 10:30 a.m., sunlight cutting through the gaps in the curtains and illuminating dust dancing in the air. The house was immersed in absolute silence, a peace I hadn’t experienced in a long time. Bianca was already absorbed in her routine at the company, and for a few hours, I was the sole master of my domain.
I grabbed my phone and saw Emily’s notification. She replied that she would be home after lunch, around 2:00 p.m., but curiosity was evident in her message: “I’ll be home, yes… but why the sudden question?” I typed a short response, maintaining the mystery I knew would intrigue her: “I’ll explain when I get there.”
I got up and went to the kitchen. There was something therapeutic about preparing my own lunch in that quiet. No deadlines, no orders to give, no dramatic confessions to hear. I cooked calmly, savoring every minute of that temporary solitude. I ate lunch staring out the window at nothing, letting my mind wander between Margaret’s marked face and Bianca’s growing submission.
At 2:00 p.m., I grabbed my keys and left. The drive to Emily’s place was quick. I parked and climbed the side wooden stairs, the sound of my steps echoing on the metal treads. When I knocked on the door, I was hit by a wave of déjà vu. As the door opened, the image of Grace from the last time I’d been there overlapped with Emily’s. The resemblance between the two was unsettling; the same ethereal aura, the same deep gaze that seemed to see beyond the surface.
“Luke?” Emily said, stepping aside to let me in. “You’re very mysterious today. What’s the reason for this surprise visit?”
“Hi, Emily,” I replied. “I came because of Grace. Or rather, because of her talent.”
Emily frowned, crossing her arms.
“What do you mean?”
“I want to take photos of her paintings. I have a contact—an influential guy in the art world—whom I’ve been talking to recently. I want to send him her work to evaluate. If he likes what he sees, it could be the doorway your sister needs into that market.”
I stepped into the living room, and the familiar scent of incense and oil paint hit me, bringing back sensations from that Saturday. Emily watched me with sharp curiosity, arms crossed over her chest, waiting for the missing piece of the puzzle.
“Photos of her paintings? Luke, how do you even know about Grace’s work? I’ve never shown you anything, and she’s extremely private about what she does. Almost no one enters that studio.”
I felt the weight of her gaze and knew I needed a convincing narrative. I took a deep breath, keeping my tone casual, as if I were recounting an ordinary event.
“I came here on Saturday, Emily,” I began, watching her reaction. “You weren’t home, but Grace was. She ended up letting me in for a few minutes.”
Emily raised an eyebrow, surprised.
“Grace let you in? She barely opens the door for the mailman.”
“I know. We had a brief conversation. I noticed she had some paint stains on her shirt, on her face too… one thing led to another in the conversation, and she ended up letting me see where she worked. I was impressed. Her work is visceral, Emily. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since.”
The suspicion on Emily’s face didn’t disappear completely, but it shifted focus. She took a step forward, eyes fixed on mine, searching for any sign of hesitation.
“And why would you come here on Saturday without telling me, Luke? We hadn’t planned anything.”
I felt a knot in my throat. Lying to Emily was different from performing with Margaret; there was a purity in her that made deception heavier. But I needed an exit that wouldn’t reveal my true intentions or my darker paths.
“I came to see you,” I said, holding her gaze.
The effect was immediate. A blush rose up her neck, coloring her cheeks a deep pink. She looked away for a second, disarmed by my direct “confession.” I felt a pang of remorse but continued, trying to soften the impact.
“I wanted to see you to talk about the play, about some ideas I had… but since you weren’t home, I ended up talking to your sister. I felt bad about coming without warning, so I didn’t mention it before.”
Emily let out the breath she seemed to be holding, a half-smile forming on her lips—half embarrassed, half flattered.
“You’re impossible, Luke… You could have called. But since you’re here and want to help my sister’s future… Grace isn’t here right now; she left for her afternoon shift, so I guess there’s no problem with you taking the photos.”
She led me down the hallway, and the silence of the house without Grace seemed to amplify the sound of our footsteps. Emily seemed lighter, as if my lie about wanting to see her had opened a door she wanted to keep open.
“Come on, the studio’s this way,” she said, opening the door to the room I already knew, but which now, under the afternoon light and with her sister’s permission, seemed to carry an even greater artistic weight.
I focused my attention on the canvases scattered around the studio. Grace’s work was, in fact, impressive; there was a technical melancholy in each brushstroke, a mix of pain and beauty that leapt from the vibrant colors and deep shadows. I began taking photos with my phone, framing each detail carefully.
“Emily, do me a favor,” I said, without taking my eyes off the lens. “Don’t tell Grace about any of this yet. I don’t want to give her false hope. The art world is cruel, and if my contact isn’t interested, I’d rather she never know there was an attempt. We’ll only tell her if something concrete happens.”
Emily nodded promptly, gratitude heavy in her gaze.
“I agree. That’s better. But… thank you, Luke. Truly. What you’re trying to do for my sister is more than anyone has ever been willing to do.”
She sighed, sitting on a small wooden stool and looking at the paintings with a latent sadness.
“Sometimes I feel so guilty. I’m difficult, she has to work so much, and she gave up her dream of being an artist because of me. Because of what happened to us.”
“You weren’t to blame for that robbery, Emily,” I said calmly and directly.
She froze. Her face went pale for a second before turning into a mask of pure surprise and curiosity.
“How… how do you know about the robbery? I never told you that.”
This time, I decided to be honest. There was no room for another lie that could collapse later.
“On Saturday, while you weren’t here, Grace and I ended up talking a lot. One thing led to another, and we ended up sharing our life stories.” I gave a half-smile, trying to ease the tension. “I joked with her that our stories are similar in their sadness. We have similar scars.”
I stepped closer and, in a spontaneous gesture, placed my hand on her head, lightly ruffling her hair, offering silent comfort.
“I bet your sister doesn’t regret sacrificing what she did for your sake. She did it because she loves you. Stop punishing yourself for something you didn’t choose to live through.”
Emily looked up, her face flushed not only from the touch but from the unexpected comfort of my words. Her eyes shimmered for a moment before she lowered her head, murmuring a shy thank-you. I glanced at my watch; time was flying.
“I have to go,” I announced, pocketing my phone. “I’m meeting this contact at 3:00 p.m., and I don’t want to be late.”
I walked toward the door but stopped at the last moment, remembering the pretext I’d used to be there.
“About the play… is there anything I can already help with? Any task for your screenwriter and right-hand man?”
Emily let out a light laugh, seeming more relaxed now.
“For now, I’m just organizing the lists of materials for the stage and costumes. But you’ll be a big help when it’s time to buy everything, since you have a car and I rely on buses to carry those heavy beams and fabrics.”
“Deal. When the list is ready, get in touch with me and we’ll take care of it,” I replied, waving goodbye before heading down the side stairs toward my car.
As I got into the vehicle and started the engine, the silence inside the car brought me back to reality. The weight of those photos on my phone was real, but the feeling of weaving an increasingly complex web—Vanessa, Olivia, Sofia, Margaret, Bianca, and now the sisters Emily and Grace—gave me a strange mix of adrenaline and exhaustion. With each new connection, I was diving deeper into these women’s lives.
The drive to the café was an exercise in transitioning between worlds. I left behind the ethereal, humble aura of Emily’s house to plunge into the epicenter of the city’s ostentation. The place was the elite’s favorite meeting spot; a café where the marble tables shone as brightly as the luxury watches on the patrons’ wrists. There, appearance wasn’t just a detail—it was currency.
I spotted Ezequiel sitting at a corner table, strategically positioned so he could observe who came and went. He was a slender man with fine features and a deliberately effeminate manner he used as a form of social camouflage. Ezequiel was a living legend in the art market: the owner of his own exhibition museum, he held the power to turn an unknown into an overnight star. His method was infallible: he would exhibit the work, and if he sensed even the faintest interest from the public, he would mobilize his network to inflate values in closed auctions. To Ezequiel, art wasn’t just expression; it was a financial asset that needed a good spectacle.
Behind that façade of refined critic, however, hid the man my father and uncle knew well: a debauched figure who organized luxurious orgies, where expensive wine and limitless sex were the rule.
“Luke, darling!” he exclaimed as I approached, extending a hand adorned with silver rings. “You look more and more like your father every day. The genetics of that family have always been a blessing.”
“It’s good to see you, Ezequiel,” I replied, sitting across from him.
We talked for a few minutes about trivialities—how things were going at the university, how much he missed the “adventures” of old with his longtime friends. But Ezequiel knew I wasn’t there just for a courtesy visit. When the mood lightened, I pulled out my phone and got straight to the point.
“I didn’t come here just for the coffee, Ezequiel. I want you to take a look at this.”
I slid the photos of Grace’s paintings across the screen. I saw the exact moment Ezequiel’s socialite mask fell, replaced by the technical, predatory gaze of the art dealer. He narrowed his eyes, taking the phone from my hand to examine the brushwork details, the play of light, the intrinsic melancholy of each canvas.
“Mon Dieu…” he whispered, almost to himself. “This is… visceral. There’s a pain here that isn’t taught in art schools. Who is this artist?”
“Her name is Grace,” I replied, keeping my voice firm. “And this is where the favor I came to ask comes in. I want you to exhibit these pieces in your museum. I want her to go from a complete unknown to an artist coveted by the elite. I want your contacts stirring up the auctions and driving her paintings to absurd values. I want this woman to become the new artistic fetish of this city’s luxurious halls.”
Ezequiel looked at me over his glasses, a sly, complicit smile playing on his lips. He knew exactly what I was doing—playing the game of power and prestige.
“You’re asking me to create a myth, Luke. To turn ashes into gold.” He paused dramatically, handing the phone back to me. “But coming from the son of such a dear old friend… I could never refuse such a request. Consider it done. I’ll prepare the ground.”
Ezequiel set down his porcelain cup with studied delicacy, the clink of the saucer the only sound between us for a brief moment. His sharp eyes gleamed behind the lenses.
“I want to meet her in person, Luke. I need to feel the energy of the artist behind this aesthetic chaos before opening my museum’s doors. Can we schedule it for Friday?” he asked, his velvety voice carrying casual authority.
“I’ll have to check with her to see if she’s available, but I’ll get back to you soon to confirm,” I replied, maintaining my composure. I knew Grace worked, and pulling her out of that routine to throw her into Ezequiel’s world would require delicate handling.
Ezequiel took an elegant sip of his coffee, a knowing, mischievous smile curving his lips. He studied me as if I were one of his unfinished canvases.
“And tell me, my dear… why all this effort?” He leaned forward, curiosity shining in his face. “Helping a friend is a noble concept, but coming from you, it sounds almost… too philanthropic. Is it love?”
I gave a short laugh, shaking my head.
“No, Ezequiel. It’s not love. But I admit I feel a very strong attraction to her. Something I can’t ignore.”
Ezequiel burst into genuine laughter, drawing glances from nearby tables.
“Ah, desire! Sexual connection sometimes drives us to madness, doesn’t it? Blood boils and judgment fades.”
“I’m not sleeping with her,” I shot back, and the silence that followed was filled with visible surprise on his face. Ezequiel raised his eyebrows, genuinely shocked.
“You’re not? So you’re moving mountains for a woman who hasn’t given you anything yet?” He smiled, fascinated.
“I share a similar past with her,” I explained, my tone turning more serious. “I feel a deep empathy for what she’s been through. Grace’s story… is heavy. She’s an incredible woman, Ezequiel. Resilient in a way very few people are.”
I fell silent for a moment, watching the movement in the café before delivering the final blow I knew would awaken Ezequiel’s predatory side.
“Besides, she told me flat out that I’d have to work very hard if I wanted to get her into bed.”
Ezequiel’s eyes widened as he let out a low whistle. Challenge was the fuel of the elite, and he knew it better than anyone.
“A difficult woman, talented, and scarred?” He shook his head, his smile now tinged with respect. “You’re right, Luke. She sounds like an incredible woman. And now I’m even more eager to meet her on Friday. If she’s half of what these paintings suggest, the art world will kneel at her feet.”
“Stay away from her, Ezequiel,” I joked, though there was a warning beneath it that he immediately caught. “She’ll never take part in those parties of yours or the perverted things you organize. Grace is from a different world than yours.”
Ezequiel let out an affected laugh, adjusting an onyx ring on his middle finger.
“Don’t worry, my dear. My interest in her is purely aesthetic… for now. I only want her talent on my walls. But I confess, you’ve made me curious about this ‘purity’ you defend so fiercely.”
We talked for a few more minutes about the gallery’s bureaucratic details, but Ezequiel’s time was measured in dollars. He stood up, bidding farewell with an elegant nod, explaining that he had another meeting with a foreign collector.
I remained alone at the table for a moment, watching the café’s movement as reality set in: I had just opened the doors of the world for Grace. I checked the time and saw it was already 5:00 p.m. The sun was beginning to set, painting the buildings in a deep orange. I picked up my phone and dialed her number.
“Hello?” Grace’s voice came through, low and slightly tired.
“Grace? It’s Luke. Are you still at work?”
“I’m finishing up. Why the call?”
“I’m going to pick you up,” I said, leaving little room for refusal. “I have something important to discuss with you—something that can’t be done over the phone.”
There was a brief silence on the other end. Grace was naturally suspicious, but there seemed to be something in my voice that stopped her from saying no.
“Alright… I’ll be out in ten minutes. I’ll be on the front sidewalk.”
“Where do you work?”
“I’ll send you the location.”
“I’ll be there.”
I hung up and walked toward the car, adrenaline surging. I knew what I was about to propose could change her life forever. I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, cutting through traffic toward her workplace.
