40.
AURORA VALEN?A
I woke in Dante’s bed.
My first reaction was panic.
The second, warmth.
The third, desire.
His arm was around my waist.
His breath touched my hair.
Our legs were tangled.
During the night, I had turned.
Now my face rested against his chest, away from the dressing.
His shirt had ridden up slightly.
My hand rested on his stomach.
Nothing had happened.
I knew that.
Even so, my body seemed to remember greater intimacy.
Dante opened his eyes.
“Good morning.”
His rough voice moved through me.
“What time is it?”
“Six ten.”
“The children.”
“Sleeping.”
“How do you know?”
“Camera in the corridor.”
He pointed toward the monitor on the table.
Three closed doors.
Silence.
“You put cameras inside?”
“Corridor. Not bedrooms.”
“All right.”
I did not want to leave.
That was a problem.
“Did you sleep?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So did I.”
“Liar.”
“A little.”
“You stayed awake.”
“Partly.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be certain I would not touch you unconsciously.”
My heart tightened.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Asleep, I do not have complete control.”
“You could have gone to the sofa.”
“You held my hand.”
I looked.
I still did.
I released it.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
His body was reacting beneath his trousers.
I noticed.
Dante noticed that I noticed.
“That is not intention,” he said.
“I know how bodies work.”
“All right.”
“You talk too much when you are nervous.”
“Very much.”
The silence grew dense.
I could stand.
I should.
Instead, I touched the skin exposed by his shirt.
Dante stopped breathing.
“Aurora.”
“May I?”
“Yes.”
I moved my fingers along his abdomen.
Slowly.
Avoiding the bandage.
His body hardened.
“Is this still only sleeping?” he asked.
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am certain I want to touch.”
“And afterward?”
“You need to stop asking about afterward.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because afterward is when you may feel hurt.”
“And now is when you decide for me.”
Dante closed his eyes.
“You’re right.”
“I know.”
I brought my mouth closer.
Kissed his chest.
He released the air.
My hand moved lower.
Stopped at the waistband of his trousers.
Dante caught my wrist.
“The shoulder.”
“I won’t touch it.”
“The children may wake.”
“Is the door locked?”
“No.”
I stopped.
Mother.
Reality.
Three-year-olds.
We could not.
I moved away.
Dante laughed quietly.
“It isn’t funny.”
“No.”
“It sounds like it.”
“It is desperation.”
I stood.
Adjusted my clothing.
“I am going back to the room.”
“All right.”
“This did not happen.”
“It happened less than the car.”
“Do not compare them.”
At the door, I heard:
“Aurora.”
I looked back.
Dante sat on the bed, hair disordered, desire evident, and an almost amused expression.
“What?”
“I missed you during the two seconds after you stood.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Sick.”
“Probably.”
I left.
The children woke minutes later.
Elisa appeared in the corridor.
“Where did you sleep?”
I stopped.
“Daddy’s room.”
“Why?”
“I had a nightmare,” I lied.
No.
An age-appropriate truth?
I had not had a nightmare.
I had been afraid.
“Daddy took care?”
“He stayed with me.”
“Like Cecí.”
“Like her.”
She accepted it.
Tomás left the room.
“Want bread.”
No interest in the adults’ private lives.
Thank God.
Cecília hugged my waist.
“You disappeared.”
“I was in the room beside you.”
“Didn’t say.”
A mistake.
“You’re right. I should have left a note.”
Dante appeared.
“It was my fault. I could have drawn something.”
“Ugly moon,” Cecília remembered.
“Very ugly.”
“Next one pretty.”
“I’ll practice.”
The routine began.
Coffee.
Toothbrushes.
Backpacks.
Dante remained home for the remote audit.
I took the children.
At school, Marta called me aside.
“Elisa said you slept with their father.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course.”
“She said you had a nightmare.”
“I told her that.”
“Everything all right?”
“Yes.”
“You do not need to explain.”
“Good.”
“But the town…”
“I do not care.”
I did.
I should not.
“I only wanted to warn you that the children repeat everything.”
“I learned too late.”
I returned to the studio.
Miguel was waiting.
“The message about Dante’s mother was false.”
“You already verified it?”
“Confirmed medical records. She had pancreatic cancer and received treatment for two years.”
“Then provocation.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To destabilize him.”
“Or prove there are still people connected to Otávio.”
“That too.”
“Who sent it?”
“A disposable telephone in S?o Paulo.”
“Someone from the group.”
“Possible.”
“Does Dante know?”
“I sent it.”
“Good.”
We worked through the notes.
The notebook made it possible to recover part of the collection.
Several pieces still existed.
Others had been sold.
“Can the museum reopen?” I asked.
Miguel looked at me.
“One day.”
“The debt?”
“If the fraud is formally recognized, some agreements may be invalidated.”
“The building?”
“It is collateral to the Ferraz Group.”
My body went rigid.
“Dante never told me.”
“Perhaps he didn’t know.”
“I need to ask.”
I called.
“The museum building is collateral to your company.”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Before the wedding.”
“And you have not mentioned it now.”
“I did not consider…”
He stopped.
“Relevant information,” I completed.
“Yes.”
Anger appeared.
“How many things exist that you do not consider relevant?”
“Many, probably.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“I’ll send you a list of every asset, guarantee, and contract involving the museum and the group.”
“Today.”
“Within one hour.”
“Why did you not seize the building?”
“The proceedings were suspended. I maintained the collateral without enforcing it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know.”
“Dante.”
“Part of me did not want to end it.”
The answer stopped my anger.
“You expected me to return?”
“Not consciously.”
“But you kept it.”
“Yes.”
“That can sound romantic.”
“It wasn’t. It was incapacity.”
“To do what?”
“To transform the final link with you into a hotel.”
My chest tightened.
The Ferraz Group acquired historical properties.
The museum could have become a hotel.
“Does the board know?”
“Yes.”
“They can enforce it now.”
“They can try.”
“And if you are removed?”
“The guarantee remains, but enforcement requires executive approval.”
“Pérola?”
“She would not do it without speaking to me.”
“That still depends on you.”
“We can transfer it.”
“To whom?”
“An independent foundation.”
“Do not use money to return it to me.”
“I am not proposing anything now.”
“It sounds like it.”
“You asked.”
I breathed.
“Send the documents.”
“I will.”
“And do nothing.”
“All right.”
I ended the call.
Miguel watched.
“You slept with him?”
“My God.”
“Elisa told Marta, who told the secretary, who is Mrs. Marlene’s cousin.”
“This town is impossible.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I slept.”
“And?”
“I slept.”
“Without…”
“Miguel.”
“I need to know whether to hit him.”
“You are not hitting anyone.”
“Then it was consensual.”
“We did not have sex.”
“All right.”
He appeared too relieved.
“Do you like me?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Romantically?”
Miguel almost choked.
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why did you ask?”
“Dante became jealous. I wanted to be certain I had not ignored something.”
“I like you as an irritating sister.”
“I am not your sister.”
“Exactly. That is why I do not say it aloud.”
I laughed.
It felt good.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you like him?”
I looked at the frame.
“Yes.”
The first time I admitted it to someone.
“Love him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lie.”
“Maybe.”
“You’re afraid.”
“Very.”
“He changed.”
“A little.”
“A little is good.”
Everyone used that phrase.
“It does not erase anything.”
“No one is asking it to.”
“Sometimes it feels like they are.”
“Perhaps because you believe loving means absolving.”
The sentence struck me.
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. You can love and preserve the scar.”
Restoration.
Readable history.
“I need to work.”
Miguel nodded.
That afternoon, Dante sent all the documents.
Complete.
Apparently unfiltered.
There was an old proposal to convert the museum into a hotel.
Approved by the board.
Rejected by Dante two months after the altar.
The recorded reason:
Preservation of cultural asset until conclusion of litigation.
Not my name.
But protection.
Even while believing me guilty?
Perhaps.
I called.
“You rejected the hotel.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He took time.
“Because it was yours.”
“You thought I had stolen from you.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
“I could not destroy it.”
The same inability.
“Was that love?”
“Probably guilt and love mixed together.”
“You loved me.”
“I never stopped.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do not say it as though it improves what happened.”
“It does not.”
“But it matters.”
“To me, very much.”
“To me too.”
Silence.
“Aurora?”
“What?”
“Was that a concession?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t make that face.”
He could not see me.
“How do you know?”
“Your voice changed.”
I smiled.
“Collect the children with me.”
“I’m coming.”
At the end of the day, as we walked along the street with our hands occupied by three children, I thought about the museum.
Dante had preserved the building.
I had preserved the box.
Both of us had kept ruins without knowing what to do with them.
Perhaps because part of us still believed something could be saved.