Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Mateo
The city rushes past in smears of festive gold and drab gray, streetlights blurring through the cab window as if the world itself can’t decide what it wants to be, bright or dark.
The warmth of Vaeda’s hand in mine anchors me to the seat, her touch steady and real against the tide of chaos still churning inside my chest. She hasn’t let go.
Even after everything tonight, she’s still here. Still beside me.
The high from being near her still vibrates through my veins, her scent clinging to my skin. My lips are tinged with the memory of hers, and yet beneath it all, something sinister pulses. Guilt. Fear. The aftershock of how close I came to falling.
I almost drank.
The words are quiet in my mind, but their echo is deafening.
I almost let it all go, almost let one moment of weakness unravel the fragile thread I’ve been walking since the day I opened my eyes in that hospital bed.
For a heartbeat tonight, I thought maybe giving up would feel like freedom.
Then she appeared, shattered the glass in my hand, and chased away the fog in my mind.
Now she sits next to me, silent and unreadable.
Her jaw is tense, lips set, her eyes fixed out the window, reflecting the city’s glow without revealing anything inside.
My phone buzzes against my leg and I pull it out of my pocket.
Yvonne’s name blinks on the screen like a warning.
I hit the side button and silence it, but not fast enough because Vaeda sees it.
She doesn’t say anything at first, but her lips press together more tightly.
Then I feel the crack in the moment. The shift.
“There’s nothing there,” I say quietly, but the words taste thin.
She turns slowly, her eyes guarded and knowing. “Except she’s the one you answered. When everything was falling apart, she’s the one you chose to let in when you were so close to tipping over that edge.” Her voice isn’t cruel. It’s worse, filled with disappointment and sounding wounded.
“I didn’t drink,” I offer, my voice tighter than I want it to be. “I didn’t even touch it.”
“But you almost did,” she replies, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And you almost let her be the one to catch you.”
“I didn’t think you’d care.” My hand tightens around hers when she tries to release mine. “Don’t you remember your marriage and the ten years between us?”
She blinks, her mouth parting just slightly. “Why would you think that I wouldn’t care?” She ignores everything else, choosing to focus on the first part instead.
My throat feels like sand and I swallow hard. “Because you keep pushing me away.”
Her gaze drops, shame flickering briefly across her features. “I push because I’m scared. Because I don’t trust myself. Because I’m married, Mateo.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But I never stopped hoping you’d show up anyway.
” A beat of silence stretches between us, laden with everything we’ve said and haven’t said.
“I’m not a saint,” I admit, my voice trembling now.
“But you... You’re the only thing that makes me want to be better.
Not for the program. Not for my family. For me.
For you. For us. If we ever get to have that. ”
Her hand tightens in mine, just barely, and I look down at the way our fingers fit, like they were made to. “I’m not your redemption,” she counters, but there’s no bite behind it.
“I’m not asking you to be,” I say. “But you make me want to stay clean. You make me want to fight harder.” The cab rolls to a stop outside her building, but neither of us moves.
“I wanted to forget you tonight,” I confess.
“That’s why I picked up when Yvonne called.
That’s why I went to that bar. I wanted to lose you in the noise.
” Her breath catches. “But even in that place, with temptation all around me, you were the only thing I could feel.”
She turns to me then, her expression cracked wide open, flooded with potent fear. “You scare the hell out of me,” she whispers.
I nod slowly. “You do the same to me.”
We ride the elevator in silence. Vaeda leans against the back wall, arms crossed, the soft glow from the overhead light illuminating the muscle in her jaw. I can feel her retreating already, slipping into that unreachable place she disappears to when the world edges too close.
When the doors open, I follow her down the hallway to her penthouse. She unlocks the door and pushes it open with a quiet sigh, stepping inside and toeing off her shoes before hanging up her jacket.
“Where’s your husband?” I ask, my voice low.
Her back stiffens before she answers. “He had to fly to Spain. His mother isn’t well.”
“Oh,” I murmur, stepping in behind her. The door closes with a soft click that somehow feels too loud in the stillness. Now it makes sense why she even invited me over here. I should’ve realized that the moment she offered at the club.
The space is familiar and still adorned with the holiday decorations. The last time I stood here was the night of her birthday party, when the air was electric with possibilities. When I almost kissed her. When we stood so close, I could feel her breath on my cheek.
She heads to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on any lights.
Only the under-cabinet glow spills across the marble countertops.
I follow slowly, memories pressing at my ribs.
The laughter of her guests, the sound of expensive wine being poured, and the desire of wanting her and knowing I shouldn’t.
She pulls two glasses down, fills one with water and hands it to me.
Her fingers brush mine as I take it. Cold glass.
Warm skin. A pulse of anticipation. The silence is heavy now.
I open my mouth to say something, anything, then my phone buzzes.
I glance down and see my mother’s name flash on the screen.
I hold it up, muttering, “It’s my mom. I need to take this.” Vaeda nods silently and turns her back, busying herself at the sink. I set the glass of water down and step into the adjacent room, lifting the phone to my ear. “Hi, Mami.”
“Where are you?” Her voice is tight, frayed with panic. “I called the doorman. He said you didn’t come home.”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I’m just... I’m at my instructor’s place with a few people. We were practicing late.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, quieter, “On Christmas Eve? You’re not lying to me, Mateo?”
“No, I swear. I’m okay.”
She exhales, and I can picture her pacing the kitchen at home, one hand pressed to her chest. “Your father will come around. He always does. You just need to stay focused. Don’t give him a reason to drag you back.”
“I won’t.”
“Merry Christmas. I will speak to you tomorrow. I love you, mi cielo.”
“Merry Christmas. Love you too.”
I hang up and turn to find Vaeda standing in the doorway, her figure a shadow haloed by soft light from the kitchen behind her.
VAEDA
I heard every word.
From the moment his voice dropped to that aching hush, to the soft, worried cadence of his mother’s plea.
I heard it all, and now I stand frozen in the doorway to my living room, having gravitated here as soon as he picked up the call, staring at him and hoping for answers I’ve been too afraid to ask.
His sobriety is fragile and I’m not helping.
I’m the tremor beneath his feet, the pothole on a road that should be smooth.
I see it now, more clearly than ever. The way his voice cracked when he reassured her, the subtle tremble in his breath when he swore he was okay.
He’s not. Not really. He’s just clinging to something that feels steady, and that something—God help us both—is me.
The guilt comes swiftly and strongly. My stomach clenches, a wave of nausea curling under my ribs.
I’ve never made anyone feel like that before, as though I’m their lifeline.
Gerardo never looked at me that way. Never needed me with that kind of desperate hope.
And the worst part? I wouldn’t have noticed, because I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want Mateo.
I don’t move when he makes his way over to me, don’t lift my head, but I feel him come closer. The air shifts with him, his presence coiling around my spine like a cord being drawn tight.
“Vaeda,” he says, his voice low and tentative.
I look up, and he’s already there. Close. So very close. His brows are pinched, his eyes wide and brimming with raw and tender emotion. He looks at me like I’m gravity, and then he touches me.
His hands lift slowly, fingers brushing the line of my jaw. He holds my face so gently, as if I’m sacred. As if I’m not the one who might ruin him. His touch is hesitant at first, but I can feel the restraint in him, the effort it takes to move slowly when his entire body pulses with urgency.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I whisper, but the moment the words leave my lips, I know they’re a lie. I’ve never wanted anything more.
His thumb brushes across my cheek, and the warmth of his breath dances across my mouth.
He leans in and kisses me. It isn’t rushed, or messy, or desperate.
It’s reverent. Devotional. A prayer disguised as a touch.
My knees go weak, my heart stuttering against my ribs.
I tremble as his lips linger on mine, and when he pulls back, I see the reflection of my own longing mirrored in his eyes.
He looks at me like I’m his salvation, and I can’t stand it.
Mateo guides me gently, leading me farther into the room. The apartment feels too quiet, too intimate, like it’s holding its breath right along with me. He sinks onto the couch, his hand still clasping mine, and with the softest tug, he draws me down onto his lap.
I hesitate for a split second. Not out of doubt, but out of fear.
Fear that I won’t be able to stop. That this will become a wildfire I can’t control, but I follow the pull anyway, letting him guide me down, my thighs sliding along either side of his.
His hands immediately come to my hips, firm and possessive.
My breath catches as I straddle him, the feel of him pulsing between my legs making it hard to breathe. I brace my hands on his shoulders, but it’s not to steady myself. It’s to stop myself from falling too far because I already know I won’t come back from this.
His fingers move along my sides, slow but deliberate, as he makes his way up toward my chest. His touch is soft, but it simmers just beneath the surface, brimming with a barely restrained hunger.
He presses his forehead to mine, his lashes brushing my skin as his hands curl into the fabric of my cardigan. “You feel like a dream,” he whispers.
I close my eyes, because if I keep them open, I’ll see everything I stand to lose. Gerardo. Greyson. The studio. All of it.
Instead, I let myself just feel him. God help me, I let myself have him.
His hands are on my waist, warm and certain as his mouth moves hungrily against mine. The kisses grow deeper, urgent and full of need, and I can’t stop myself from responding.
Mateo pulls my cardigan up and over my head, casting it aside without a glance, then his lips return to mine instantly, as if the separation had been agony.
I can feel the tremble in his fingers, the eagerness in his grip, but there’s still tenderness in every motion, like he’s painting each inch of my skin to memory.
My bra is next, the black lace joining my cardigan on the floor at his feet.
He pulls off his own sweater, then we press together, skin to skin, bare and burning. I rake my fingers along his back, relishing the strength there, the way his muscles flex beneath my hands. My skirt pools higher on my thighs as I shift my weight and roll my hips instinctively against him.
We fall deeper into this forbidden space, this heady blend of lust and longing. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, and I gasp when his hands slide up my sides. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. All I know is him.
My fingers move to the waistband of his jeans, unfastening the button, slowly tugging at the zipper. My breath hitches as I lean in to kiss his jaw, ready to give in completely.
“When will you leave him?” The words are soft, but earnest, and they rupture the bubble of rapture.
I still as his question slices through the haze of lust. My hands stop moving.
My lips freeze against his skin. I feel his heart racing beneath my palm, and for a moment, I swear the whole world holds its breath.
I sit back slightly, straddling him still, but all the fire inside my chest has turned to ash.
Mateo looks up at me, his eyes open, vulnerable. He’s not pressuring. Not demanding. Just... hoping. And I can’t answer. My mouth parts, but nothing comes.
His hands, once tight on my hips, loosen their grip. “You won’t,” he says, voice quiet but laced with agony. He nods to himself, almost as if he’d known. As if he’d been bracing for it.
I shift off his lap, hugging my arms around myself as shame curls like smoke in my lungs. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, unable to meet his gaze, though the words feel pathetic. Useless.
Mateo exhales, long and slow. “I don’t want to be someone you come to in the dark and hide from in the light.”
“You’re not,” I protest too quickly, but even I don’t believe it.
He stands, moving around the coffee table to gather his clothing from the floor. “I should go.”
“Please don’t—”
He pulls the sweater over his head and turns to face me. “I would’ve given you anything,” he states. “But not as an illicit secret.”
I nod, swallowing the tears that threaten to spill. “And it would’ve wrecked us both.”
He watches me for a moment longer, then heads for the door. He doesn’t slam it, doesn’t curse. Just quietly walks out, and I’m left in the silence, with the heat of his touch still on my skin, and the ghost of his question echoing in my chest.