The Best Friend
Valeria
The confrontation with Dante stripped me bare.
I retreat into the restroom. Both hands braced against the edge of the sink, I stare at the woman reflected back at me in the mirror. My mascara hasn’t smudged. My dress is flawless. Nothing betrays the frantic pounding of my heart.
He looked at me like I was the enemy.
I turn on the cold water and plunge my wrists beneath it.
Inhale. Exhale. Slowly.
No. I will not fall apart here.
I lift my head—
And Bianca is there.
She must have slipped in seconds earlier without making a sound. Her gaze flicks automatically toward the empty stalls before returning to me—the reflex of someone making sure there are no witnesses.
I suddenly remember her at eighteen. Red eyes. Silent tears. A suitcase abandoned in my hallway while I dragged her inside without asking questions.
I gave her half my bed that night.
That was twelve years ago.
“Well,” she says lightly, “this is one hell of a surprise.”
The sweetness from the ballroom is gone.
What remains is colder. Sharper. Almost entertained.
Like she’s finally done pretending.
I turn slowly to face her.
For a second, I search her expression for something familiar. Regret. Guilt. Anything.
There’s nothing.
The girl I loved like a sister never existed.
Maybe she never had.
“What do you want, Bianca?” I ask quietly. “To try killing me again?”
She laughs—a light, almost affectionate sound, as though I’d said something charming. But something flashes through her eyes immediately afterward.
Not shame. Annoyance.
She walks to the mirror beside me and pulls a lipstick from her clutch with deliberate calm. The sapphire on her left hand catches the light.
My stomach twists.
Dante chose a sapphire for her too.
“Don’t be dramatic,” she says, applying the lipstick carefully. “I had nothing to do with your disappearance.”
“Funny. That’s not how I remember it.”
Our eyes meet through the mirror. Hers slide away first.
She caps the lipstick slowly before turning toward me.
“Why did you come back?” she asks at last. “Why now?”
I smile mockingly.
The silence unsettles her more than any answer could.
I see the exact moment doubt creeps in.
“You’re bluffing,” she says quickly. “You have nothing.”
Then, after a beat:
“And even if you did, who do you think Dante would believe?”
My pulse stutters painfully.
Not a confession. Close enough.
“I heard your conversation,” she continues. “Every word.”
I force myself not to react.
Bianca steps closer, studying me carefully.
“You really think he’d come back to you after what you did to him?”
Her voice softens deliberately.
“I was there when he fell apart, Valeria. That kind of thing changes people. It creates bonds.”
She smiles faintly.
“Trust me. Your husband doesn’t miss you when he’s in my bed.”
The words hit exactly where she intended them to.
“And in seven days,” she adds, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress, “I’ll be Ms. Ivanov.”
Her eyes move over me slowly.
Triumphant.
“You came back too late.”
Silence stretches between us.
Then I tilt my head slightly.
“Tell me something, Bianca.”
For the first time since entering the room, she hesitates. Just slightly.
“Will you still be able to sleep at night now that I’m back?”
A flicker of doubt crosses her face before she walks out of the room.
The door closes behind her with a muffled slam.
I remain alone in those painfully white restrooms, my hands trembling slightly.
And my last illusions about the woman who used to be my best friend finally disappear.
She regrets nothing.