*Nico*
Her thighs clung to his waist like velvet cuffs, her breath hitching every time he drove deeper into her. Nico moved like water and fire—fluid and scorching, a rhythm so flawless it could almost be mistaken for care. Skin slapped against skin, slick with sweat, her hands buried in his damp hair as if she'd drown without holding onto him.
But Nico was already drowning.
The air was thick with perfume and heat. Her lipstick was smudged, mascara smeared—he liked it like that. It made her feel less like a stranger. She moaned his name like it meant something holy. He kissed her neck, not out of want but routine, his tongue tracing the outline of someone else's desire.
He thrust harder, and she arched like a prayer.
It was hot—but never warm.
Pleasure—but never peace.
Lust—but never love.
His fingers dug into her hips, dragging her closer, deeper—closer to what? Release? Connection? He didn't know anymore. She whispered, "Don't stop," and he didn't. Not because he wanted to stay, but because he didn't know how to leave.
Her body trembled, back arched, cries muffled by his skin. She came undone around him, and he buried his face in her neck, pretending for a second that he wasn't empty. That maybe her warmth could seep into him and light whatever had gone cold.
But when she fell apart, he didn't.
He never did.
Afterward, she curled into him like she believed he could hold more than her weight. Her breathing slowed. Her hand rested against his chest like she wanted to hear something beating beneath it.
Nico stared at the ceiling. Unblinking. Unsure.
He lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. Inhaled sharply. The bitter smoke scraped down his throat like a punishment. It felt more real than the last hour. More real than her. More real than himself.
How did he get here? When did his body become a performance? When did he become just a stage for someone else's fantasy?
She shifted in her sleep, murmuring something sweet and meaningless.
And Nico exhaled.
"I'm so f**king tired of this," he whispered to no one.
*The night had ended like they all did—for Nico, at least.*
A tangled mess of bodies and breath, then a hollow silence that settled over his skin like ash. The woman beside him was still asleep, her mascara smudged across the pillow, her lipstick staining his collar like a signature he'd never asked for.
He didn't kiss her goodbye. He never did.
By the time sunlight crept in, slicing the room into gold and shadow, Nico was already out the door. Not out of guilt. Just habit.
---
*Elsewhere, beneath the same sun, Maria pulled her scarf tighter.*
The marketplace was alive with color—bright oranges piled in baskets, swaths of fabric fluttering like prayer flags—but none of it touched her.
Tamra walked beside her, chattering about fabric choices and dinner recipes, but Maria wasn't really listening. Her heels clicked against the stone road, not too high, not too flashy—she had tried, really tried, to disappear today. Her dress was modest, her hair pulled into a low, clean bun. She even wore her mother's old earrings—tiny silver studs, the kind that said I belong here.
But it didn't matter.
Not here.
The man at the vegetable cart pulled his crates closer when he saw her. The fish vendor turned his back before she even opened her mouth.
And then came the voice.
Loud. Male. Familiar in that ugly, unforgettable way.
*"Hey! That's her. The one from the club. The dancing whore!"*
Everything stopped. Tamra froze mid-step, her mouth tightening into a line. Maria's chest constricted as if someone had looped a wire around her ribs and yanked hard.
The man pointed, laughing now. He stood near the tea stall, sloshing chai from his tin cup, his words slurred with memory and beer.
"She was shaking her ass on the table last Friday—look at her now, acting all holy. You buying onions now, sweetheart? What, tired of earning your money on your knees?"
Laughter rippled. Not much, but enough.
Maria's face burned. Her vision narrowed. It wasn't just the man—it was the people who didn't look away. The women who muttered under their breath. The vendors who suddenly had nothing left to sell. A woman hissed "shameless" under her breath as Maria walked past, and her little boy asked, "Mama, what's a whore?" in a voice too loud, too clean.
Maria didn't answer. Her feet moved on their own. Away.
Tamra caught up, angry. "Do you want me to say something? I will. I swear I will, Maria—"
But Maria just shook her head.
"Don't," she whispered. "They've already said everything."
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the scarf again, tucking it higher, as if it could erase the memory of sequins and spotlight. But the shadow of the bar still clung to her—like glitter in her veins, shame on her skin.
She didn't say it, but Tamra saw it in her face.
---
They walked past the vendors. Past the whispers. Past the burnt looks etched into every brick of this town. The sun was higher now, glaring like judgment. Maria's steps were too fast. Her chest still burned.
They reached the end of the market, where the stone gave way to glass and wealth. The kind of place she didn't belong anymore. Or maybe never had.
A black car slid to a stop near the curb.
Tamra was still rambling, trying to fill the silence with noise, but Maria had gone silent again. She didn't need words. She needed air. She needed—
"Maria," Tamra said quietly, nudging her arm.
Maria looked up.
And then everything slowed.
The car door opened, and a man stepped out.
Sharp black suit. Watch glinting like a blade. Hair slicked back, dark with an effortless sort of danger. Eyes hidden behind sunglasses, posture like the city bowed beneath his shoes.
Mr. Laurent.
He was the kind of man people turned to look at. Not because he demanded it—but because the air changed around him. A presence that felt like power and past sins stitched into tailored linen.
He wasn't looking at her at first.
But then he did.
And the moment his eyes met hers—he stopped.
His hand froze mid-motion, sunglasses still halfway to his face. His gaze locked on hers like he'd seen a ghost. Maria didn't blink. Couldn't. She didn't even know why she was holding her breath, but she was.
Because he looked at her like he knew her.
No, not her. Someone else.
Someone she'd never met.
Yet somehow… had been.
The world around them didn't notice. Vendors shouted, cars honked, life moved. But for a split second, something in Laurent's chest stirred like a match struck in darkness.
A flicker.
Not recognition. Not exactly. But memory.
Of a face—almost hers.
A woman in a silk dress under low lighting. Her eyes were shining—not with joy, but with the unbearable weight of pretending. Her lips were curved in a smile, but her tears had ruined the makeup beneath it. A contrast so beautiful it hurt.
Laurent blinked.
Maria was already walking away.
And yet he couldn't shake the feeling in his gut. The echo of something undone.
*"Who the hell are you?"* he whispered under his breath—
not to her.
To the memory.
To the ghost.
And for the first time in a long time,
Mr. Laurent—who had seen empires rise and lovers fall—
stood still.
*Shaken.*
---
End of Chapter 2
*To be continued...*