25 #3
I glance at Alexei. He’s texting, doesn’t even look at me. Anton has vanished. I slip in and pull the curtain closed. The cubicle is narrow. She’s turned away, unfastening a dress. Her skin shows; her shoulders are tight. I flatten against the wall.
"Alaska," I say. "We can’t be together."
"You already told me. And I refuse."
"This isn’t a whim."
She turns. Her eyes shine with pure anger. She folds her arms. No pose. She’s hurt.
"Neither is mine."
"Don’t look at me like that," I say.
"Like how? Like a person?" She steps closer. "Like a girl you fucked and now you’re putting up a wall?"
"Keep your voice down."
"I’m not yelling."
She’s not. But it hurts anyway. I go for what I know how to do: set boundaries.
"I’ve already explained it, Irina—the job, all of it."
"Your job isn’t the problem. Neither is Irina."
"Yes it is. And so are you."
It slips out unfiltered and I regret it a second later.
"Shit. I didn’t mean to say it like that."
"Well, there it is." She takes a deep breath. "I’m a problem for you. Fine. And what you made me believe—was that a lie?"
I stay quiet. The back of my neck burns. It hurts not to touch her. I don’t move.
"I didn’t lie," I say. "You matter to me. A lot. And even so, I can’t give you this."
"Don’t give me speeches," she cuts in, close, almost pressed to me. "Give me a reason that doesn’t sound like an excuse."
"I hurt you if I give it to you. And I hurt you if I take it away."
"You’re already hurting me." Her voice cracks a little—nothing dramatic, real. "Say it to my face, Nat: you love me and you bail? Or you don’t love me and you bail anyway?"
I bite my lip. She waits.
"I love you," I say. "And I’m staying by your side to take care of you. So no one touches you. And so I don’t touch you."
"You’re cruel."
"It’s the only thing I can do without wrecking your life."
"I screw up my own life just fine." She comes closer. Her forearm brushes mine. My skin burns. "Kiss me. Then tell me no."
"No."
"Coward."
"Call me whatever you want."
She goes still. Grinds her teeth. Her eyes wet, but she doesn’t cry. A tiny shake of her head, barely there.
"I’m not letting this go," she says, low and deadly serious. "I’m warning you. I’m going to come find you every day."
"Don’t."
"I’m going to." She breathes. "You going out or am I?"
"I’ll go. And put on the black dress. It looks killer on you."
"Don’t give me orders."
"It’s a request."
"Fine."
I make a gap. Step out. I adjust the earpiece I’m not wearing, pure empty gesture. I look up. Alexei hits me with a quick look. I nod, neutral. I take my post, statue-still. Inside, there’s not an inch of space left.
Alaska comes out furious—I’ve never seen her like this. It’s not just anger; she’s frustrated, truly hurt, and it shows even in the way she breathes.
Without a word, she ducks into the first upscale boutique in front of her. She grabs random hangers: a Burberry wool coat, a silk dress that costs as much as a compact car, impossible heels. She doesn’t try anything on or check prices.
"This, this, and this too," she orders, dropping the clothes into my arms.
"Size?" the sales associate asks, eyes already gleaming.
"The smallest. I don’t care," Alaska says, curt.
I scoop it all up without a peep. I turn into her assistant, her human hanger, her accountant, her pack mule. The clerk doesn’t waste time. He offers water, a chair, an even bigger bag. I nod and pay. The total lands a soft punch to my gut. I say nothing. I haul the bags and keep going.
"And this?" Alaska says, pulling out an inlaid leather bag. "Fine, that too."
She drops it on the counter without looking at me.
Not a beat. She’s tearing through everything.
She doesn’t give me a second to breathe.
She’s in spoiled-princess mode, bratty, unbearable.
I know it’s not about clothes. I know it’s about us.
About what we can’t have. About the want I feel too and won’t let out.
"Are you just gonna stand there staring at me, or are you gonna move?" she snaps, her hard look hitting me dead-on.
I take the hit. I don’t answer. I breathe and match her pace.
Store to store. More hangers, more bags, more "Would you like us to ship it to your place?
" and me signing receipts like it’s my cardio for the day.
In one they offer champagne. I say no. I take a bottle of water and an automatic smile.
The bags carve lines into my fingers. My shoulders itch. I shut up and keep going.
Every word out of her mouth pricks. I hate watching her lose that built-in spark.
I want to stop her, sit on a bench, ask her to listen.
Tell her I don’t need to see her wrapped in silk to love her.
She’s already got me wrecked. My hands shake and it’s not from the weight.
I want to, but I can’t, and it splits me in two.
But I don’t say it. I swallow it. Because if I let a promise slip now, here, in the middle of this chaos, I might not keep it later.
And she doesn’t deserve more mess. She deserves truth, deserves clarity, deserves laughs, deserves plans, deserves breakfast in bed.
She deserves everything I can’t give her. Not yet.
In the fourth store they bring her a trench.
It looks perfect. She looks at me in the mirror through her reflection.
One second. Nothing more. There she is, the Alaska I know.
The one who dances in the kitchen. The one who sends me three-minute voice memos about nonsense.
I give her a tiny wink. She bites her lip. Drops her guard half a millimeter.
"You like it?" she asks, finally in a normal tone.
"I love it. You look good even in an old T-shirt," I say, honest and quiet.
The others show up behind us and Alaska changes the plan. She hooks her arm through Vega’s, doesn’t say a word, and pulls her forward. Doesn’t even look at me. Sidelines me without breaking a sweat and I suck it up.
I get it. Right now she needs her sister, period.
So I hang back a few steps, quiet, the bags cutting off my circulation and my face saying everything’s fine.
I keep Mikel busy with whatever: those sneakers don’t match, look at that window display, we’ll grab something to eat later.
I talk about anything, make up plans, I even tell him I’ve got a weird shoulder pain so he’ll hold a bag for me.
The goal is to keep him from gluing himself to Vega so Alaska can get a minute alone with her.
But Mikel’s no idiot and I run out of material. The second I turn, he slips away and sidles back up to Vega, all clingy.
Luna side-eyes me with that little half-smile that says she’s gonna mess with me. I see it coming.
"They’re smoking hot, huh?" she says, all casual.
"Who?" I shoot back, flat, though I know damn well.
"The twins. Fuck, if I weren’t with Martina..." She bites her lip, holds my gaze. "I’d fuck Alaska."
She’s busting my ovaries. Literally.
"Shut up, Gata," I snap, harsher than I meant to.
She laughs, thrilled to have thrown me off.
I want to smack her with a shopping bag, but it’s heavy and I’d wreck my wrist. I’ve known the kitty since she was a little brat, since she showed up at the mansion at twelve to train with Irina.
Ever since then, the golden child, Sabina’s daughter.
She always gets there first, runs faster, gets everything on the first try.
Stronger, quicker, sharper. And hotter, with that effortless androgynous look everyone drools over. And a player—she never misses.
Not my thing, though, okay? I’ve never tried anything with her because she’s not my type—too masc, too tall.
I like to call the shots, not walk around craning my neck.
But, much as it pisses me off, the bitch grows on me.
She’s got spark, she’s brazen, she makes you laugh even when you’re in a mood.
And that pisses me off, because I can’t just hate her and be done; I never quite get there.
She nudges me, amused; she’s got a radar for my bullshit.
"Relax, dude. I just wanted to see your face." She goes quiet for a beat, looks straight at me, gearing up to ask something real. "By the way, she told me everything. So what’s going on with you two?"
I look down at the floor, at my dusty boots, at the bags biting into my fingers.
Nothing’s happening with Alaska because nothing can happen.
She’s Irina’s kid sister. Period. I bite my tongue so I don’t say it out loud.
Because something is happening. My chest hums when she brushes against me, when our eyes snag by accident.
But I’m a coward, and it pisses me off to admit it.
I keep my mouth shut for way too long. Luna cuts me a sideways look and a sly, snake-sweet smile slips out.
"Oh, please, Nat," she sing-songs. "Your face gives you away. Your whole fucking body lights up whenever she’s within ten feet."
"Don’t be ridiculous," I growl, trying to sound convincing and just sounding tragic.
"Ridiculous, huh? Look, I may be a lot of things, but I’m not blind. You want Alaska in your bed, in your shower, and on your couch. And the way she looks at you, it’s obvious she doesn’t hate you one bit. In fact, I’d put money on something already having happened between you two."
Heat crawls up my neck and I curse myself for not controlling my face better.
"Luna, cut it out. You have no idea."
She lets out a low laugh, full of playful malice.
"Oh, I’ve got an idea. More than you think. You’re dying to tie her to the bed."
My stomach drops. I want to die right here. How the hell did she find out about that?
"Fuck, Luna!" It comes out too loud and half the place turns to look. I drop my voice. "Who told you that shit?"
She laughs even harder, delighted with herself and my reaction.
"No one, girl. Okay, fine—everyone knows you’re into leather and whips." She winks. "Don’t freak, dude, I don’t judge. If anything, I wish more girls knew what they actually like instead of all that bullshit."
I cover my face for a second with my hand. If she knew I slept with her mother… she wouldn’t be this friendly.
"Seriously, shut up already," I murmur, defeated. "I can’t do anything. I’m not letting Irina blow up my life."
But Luna doesn’t let up; she keeps pressing where it hurts, with that mix of brazenness and tenderness that’s so hers.
"Hey, Nat, listen," she says, serious, but still sparking. "If you really like Alaska, do something. But do it right. Forget Irina. Talk to Julia. If she’s on board, Irina can eat it."
"With Julia?" I ask, thrown.
"Yeah. Irina acts like she’s the boss, but if Julia signs off, the drama’s over. Plus, Julia has a soft spot for you. Play it right and she’ll give you the green light."
I go quiet, turning it over. I think of my talk with Irina this afternoon. Luna taps my arm to cut the tension.
"Come on, girl, don’t spiral so hard. All I’m saying is, if you want to get with the twin, do it before she slips away and goes with somebody else."
Her words hit harder than I want. I feel exposed, caught, and still, grateful. Because under all that teasing, there’s real advice.
Before I can answer, Vega calls from up ahead: "Girls, come on, we’re gonna be late!"
Mikel’s already hanging off her arm again, like nothing else exists but her, all dopey. Alaska walks beside her, still wearing that proud, slightly bruised look she got after what happened in the fitting room.
I scoop up the bags I’m still carrying and catch up with the group. We all head for the bar where the twins’ friends are waiting to celebrate their birthday. Night in Madrid is just getting started, and I can feel mine… about to get a whole lot messier.