Chapter 8 Estella
The city feels awake, as always—its streets stretching, yawning, bathed in gold and honey. The air carries the faint scent of roasted coffee and the tang of sea salt drifting from the coast, and each time I inhale, it sinks deeper, stronger.
I’ve lived here for nearly forever, yet every time I step outside, it’s like experiencing it for the first time.
The edges of my polka-dot blouse flutter in the breeze, and the loose waves of my hair sweep across my shoulders, half-covering the scars beneath. I’ve learned not to notice them anymore—the faint, wispy lines that cross my skin like a pale, unfinished tattoo.
Vendors call out prices in sing-song rhythms as we dodge tourists snapping photos, weaving past stalls stacked with vintage fashion magazines and forgotten records.
As it turns out, Dante isn’t interested in Barcelona. He doesn’t seem interested in anything—except me. His eyes have been drilling into me every step of the fucking way.
He should sense my irritation, notice the twitch of my lips, the sharp glances I throw his way—but he doesn’t look away, and he doesn’t back down.
I bite down on the strawberry heart-shaped lollipop he bought me, spinning the stick between my fingers. The candy clacks against my teeth, and once again today, I get lost in my thoughts.
I’ve met a lot of men in my life. Fucked plenty, killed plenty. But I’ve never met anyone so annoyingly persistent.
He doesn’t even have to open his mouth to make me want to slit his throat—if anything, it’s worse when he stays quiet. He’s an observer, always lurking, always watching. And when he finally does speak, it sends a strange pull straight to my core.
I still don’t know how I feel about him.
Part of me wants to slice his throat and be done with the uncertainty once and for all.
But another part—the stupid, restless, starving part—wants him to stay.
Because whatever is happening between us, whatever strange pull coils in the space where instinct and desire tangle, it keeps the emptiness at bay. It’s something, even if it’s twisted.
After what feels like an entire lifetime of walking, we finally spill into the flea market tucked between two narrow, sun-drenched streets.
My eyes sweep across the maze of stalls, a riot of color and texture.
Vintage clothes hang crookedly from rusted racks, silk scarves billow like soft flags in the breeze, and clusters of jewelry and trinkets glitter beneath the daylight.
And then we see them—the thing we came for. Old movie records, stacked unevenly, waiting for someone like me, someone who still believes in the weight of a story you can hold in your hands.
I shift the lollipop to the inside of my cheek. “We made it,” I murmur on a tired exhale, picking up my pace as if momentum alone could keep my focus anywhere but on him. He’s seeped into my thoughts, saturating them, clinging like something venomous that refuses to be shaken off.
A quiet laugh slips out when the comparison paints itself in my mind.
A spider. That’s exactly what he is. A big, cunning creature lurking in the dark, waiting for the moment you’re distracted so he can slip beneath your clothes and sink his fangs in.
You don’t notice the bite at first. But then the venom begins to drift through you, softening your senses, clouding your mind, hollowing out every thought until only its poison remains.
“?Oh, hola, carino! Oh, hello, darling!” Manuel, the owner of the stall, exclaims, his wrinkled face breaking into a smile, which I return. “No te he visto por aquí desde hace un tiempo. I haven’t seen you around for a while.”
I tilt my head, pulling the lollipop from my mouth with a soft smack. Sunlight flashes against my brass jewelry, glinting off the rings and the bracelet, scattering tiny sparks.
“Estaba ocupada matando gente. Como siempre. I was busy killing people. As always,” I answer lightly, the smile holding steady on my face.
Manuel laughs, the sound roughened by at least a decade of chain-smoking.
My gaze drifts to the table covered in what he’s selling—old vinyl, tapes, postcards, and a pack of cigs—and I shake my head to myself, once again realizing the weight of his job.
Standing here all day under the scorching sun, talking to strangers, sounds like the worst thing in the world; anyone would be a smoker because of it.
Still, I hate how everything he sells reeks faintly of tobacco. The thought of that smell clinging to my skin makes my stomach twist.
“?La más divertida, como siempre! The funniest, as always!” he exclaims, a note of pride in his words. His teeth catch the sunlight, glinting and nearly blinding me with their polished surfaces. I guess his business is going well enough.
I’ve never lied to Manuel about my work. The fact that he thinks I’m joking every time only amuses me.
His gaze shifts to Dante, brows knitting as he extends a hand to him. “?Y quién es este maravilloso caballero? And who is this wonderful gentleman?” he asks, his voice turning high-pitched at the last word.
Dante reaches out, and they exchange a quick handshake.
Before he can answer, a brilliant idea flashes through my mind, and I cut in.
“Mon cousin. Il a... un handicap. My cousin. He has... a disability,” I say, switching to French, the words tight and teary as I place a hand over my heart, pulling a sad grimace.
Manuel used to live in Paris, and he knows French, while Dante doesn’t, so not using it at this moment would be criminal.
The old man’s eyes go wide, turning into giant saucers, and he slowly withdraws his hand. His expression softens with pity as he looks at Dante, then back at me. “Oh, je suis vraiment désolée, chérie. Oh, I’m so sorry, darling.”
“?a va aller. Je suis sur la voie de la guérison. It’s okay. I’m on the path to healing,” Dante says, nodding solemnly.
The wicked smile that had been tugging at my lips a second ago vanishes like smoke.
My eyes widen, round and startled, as a jolt of shock punches through me.
I turn to Dante, the feeling swelling as he stands there—too close, too steady, calm as a monk, his expression impossible to read, a tiny smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.
Manuel starts rambling about something, but his voice dissolves into a muffled blur. My gaze stays locked on Dante as that smug, infuriating smirk of his stretches even further.
Asshole.
Smart asshole. Smarter than I thought.
My mouth twitches with irritation, and I snap my attention back to Manuel, desperate to wrench the focus away from Dante.
“Quiero una película nueva. De cualquier género. I want a new movie. Any genre,” I say, the words tumbling out too fast. Shoving the lollipop back into my mouth, I try to pour all my anger into biting down on it.
“C’est une soirée cinéma romantique. Il nous faut quelque chose de torride. It’s a romantic movie night. We need something steamy,” Dante pushes.
The sun beats down, scorching my skin, but the heat in my cheeks burns even hotter with pure adrenaline, staining me deeper than my fake blush. My mouth parts, and a wave of shame rolls in, swiftly morphing into amusement that has no business settling inside me right now.
Manuel will never look at me the same again.
He hesitates, lips pulling into an awkward, fragile smile before he turns to the pile of tapes. His fingers tremble slightly—whether from age, exhaustion, or from what he just heard, I can’t tell. I can only guess it’s all of the above.
He sifts through the stack until he finds a black plastic case, its corners worn smooth over time. No label. No clear name. Just a strip of faded red tape with a single smudged word, as if someone tried to erase it but lost their nerve at the last second.
Manuel quickly slips it into a paper bag and hands it to me. I take it without a word while Dante pulls out a twenty, muttering that he doesn’t need the change.
An extra fifteen euros won’t get Manuel the mental help he needs after encountering a pair of in-love relatives, but still—it’s something.
He gives us a small nod before turning back to rearrange his table. I pivot and stride away, expecting Dante to follow.
A flicker of excitement stirs inside me as we leave the poor man behind. It’s almost comical how naive some people can be—and how easy it is to make them question everything with a single lie.
“So, you know French,” I say, grimacing in surprise. “Good. Not as stupid as you seem, after all.”
I nudge him with my shoulder, and he lets out a weak laugh. “I learned some when I had free time. And I still mix up some words,” he admits, humble as ever.
“Every word is a spark of meaning, and meaning is the fire that lights the world,” I quote, lowering my voice to mimic Cane’s tone.
The bastard drilled that line into me from the moment we met.
He made me study relentlessly, and whenever I slowed down, he’d repeat it—again and again—until I started dreaming about killing him before he finished the sentence.
“Who said that?” Dante asks, amusement flaring in his tone.
“One wise, brilliant man,” I reply. “Me.”
A smirk curves his lips. He doesn’t believe me—not because I couldn’t come up with something like that, but because I’m usually less poetic and far less annoying, but he doesn’t say anything.
“German?” I ask, glancing at him. “How many do you know? Portuguese? Chinese?”
“Ugh—” he groans, his awkward energy rising with every language I list.
More excitement rushes through me, quick and bright, as I spin around to face him, walking backward. “Liki?”
His eyes widen, his lips part in visible frustration, and I can’t help the hyena-like laugh that bursts from me.
“You have no idea about that one, do you?” I tease, smacking his arm lightly before turning to walk beside him.
“It’s fine. You’ll get there.” I drop my voice into a mock-patronizing tone. “One day. Maybe.”