Amaya
The week leading up to the Women in Power: Philanthropy & Leadership gala was a carousel of fittings, beauty appointments, and text reminders from Hannah in all caps.
This was one of the few events I actually looked forward to. Not just because of the glamour, though there was plenty of that, but because it was women-only. No fake-smile arm-candy husbands or bored hedge funders pacing near the bar. Just women being powerful, unapologetic, and very aware of their worth.
By late afternoon, I was in my dressing room, surrounded by silk and velvet and the quiet hum of the steamer. The dress I chose was midnight-blue silk, bias cut, the kind that felt like water over my skin. It clung and moved in equal measure. My hair was pulled into a sleek, low twist, makeup designed for flash photography: glowing skin, a smoky wing, and a red that meant fiesty.
Dave, Hannah's family driver and my occasional rescuer from late-night events, arrived promptly. Hannah was already in the car, her gown champagne-gold and scandalously backless.
"You're late," she said without looking up from her phone.
"I'm exactly on time," I replied, smoothing my gown as I slid in.
She glanced over, slow and appreciative. "Fine. You look obscene."
"That's the goal."
The red carpet outside the venue was a gauntlet of flashbulbs and shouted questions. The press weren't allowed inside, but they didn't need to be. They got their money's worth before we even crossed the threshold. Hannah and I moved together without speaking. Smiling just enough, tilting our heads to show angles, my left hand finding the light every time a camera pointed our way. The ring would once again, be on half the blogs by midnight.
Inside, the ballroom had crystal chandeliers scattered light across gold-tipped table settings, champagne glasses lined up in precise rows. The air smelled like money.
We mingled, we networked, we smiled until our cheeks ached.
The speeches came next. Some inspiring, and some politely endured. By the end, Hannah had the familiar glint in her eye, the one that meant she was about to make trouble.
"Afterparty," she murmured, already fishing her phone out to text someone.
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The rooftop bar was lit like a low ember, the skyline sprawling out in jagged brilliance beyond the glass. We claimed a corner booth and ordered something strong—vodka for her, gin for me.
Halfway through my second, she leaned back, eyes narrowing. "So," she began, "when was the last time you got laid?"
I didn't answer right away.
She groaned. "Don't tell me it's been months."
"Seven," I admitted.
Her eyes widened. "Seven months? Amaya. That's biblical."
"I have toys," I said, smirking like it was no big deal.
She shook her head. "Toys don't make you sweat the same way. Don't give you that bite in your neck the next morning. You need to fix that."
I rolled my eyes.
Her drink arrived, and she took a long sip before continuing. "God, I had the best night last weekend—this guy—"
And she told me. In vivid, entirely unnecessary detail.
I laughed, I groaned, I hid my face behind my hands. But the longer she talked, the more the images in my head stopped matching her story. They became my own. The hands I imagined weren't the ones she described. The mouth wasn't some stranger's—it was Christian's. His voice, low and cutting. His weight pinning me down. His palm wrapping around my throat in that way I hated myself for wanting.
My thighs pressed together under the table. The silk caught and slid over my skin in a way that made me want to squirm.
Hannah kept talking, and i kept drinking.
By the time the bill came, my skin felt flushed and heavy under the silk. My laugh was too loose, and my legs too warm.
In the car, Hannah tipped her head toward me. "Stay at mine tonight. You're tipsy. And I have leftover cake."
I shook my head. "No, I need to go home tonight."
She smirked knowingly. "Suit yourself."
Dave dropped her off first. She blew me a kiss, still grinning, and vanished into her building.
When Dave returned to the driver's seat, he glanced at me in the mirror. "Home, Miss Amaya?"
"Home," I confirmed.
The ride was quiet. Too quiet. My mind kept wandering into places I didn't trust it to go. I imagined walking into my apartment, stripping off this gown, sinking onto the couch with my toy in my hand—and hating myself for picturing Christian's mouth instead.
When we pulled up to my building, I started to tell him I was fine. "You don't have to walk me up," I said, hand already on the door.
"I'll take you up," he said, like it wasn't up for debate.
The elevator ride was quiet except for the hum in my head and the throb in my body. I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the warmth in my chest, and lower—God, lower—like a slow burn I couldn't shake.
The doors opened.
And there he was.
Christian.
Leaning against my apartment door like he owned it. Phone in hand, head bent, perfectly still until the sound of the elevator drew his gaze.
For a second, I thought I'd drunk myself into imagining him, but no—he was real. Solid. Here.
What the fuck is he doing here, tonight of all nights? My stomach dropped, heat rushing to my face so fast I swayed.
His gaze lifted at the sound of the doors, sliding over me in a slow, deliberate sweep—hair, face, the line of my dress—and then stopping, cold, at Dave's hand resting lightly on my elbow.
His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. "Who the fuck is this?"
I didn't answer. "Goodnight, Dave. Thank you," I said, stepping away.
Dave hesitated, gave Christian a polite nod, then stepped back into the elevator.
Christian's eyes never left me. "Are you drunk?"
I brushed past him, the key sliding into the lock with only a little more effort than usual. The door swung open, and I stepped inside, leaving it open behind me.
Bad idea.
Because the moment I passed him, my body remembered every thought I'd tried to drown tonight. And now he was in the hallway, close enough to touch.