Chapter 7
The silence after sex was always dangerous territory.
There was something raw, inescapable, about that moment when bodies were still warm, breathing still ragged, but reality was already creeping back in, reminding us of what we’d just done.
I knew I shouldn’t look at him, that I should get up, straighten my clothes, and move on with my life as if nothing had happened. But my eyes found Fernando before I could convince myself otherwise.
He was sitting on the edge of the conference table, hands clasped, gaze distant. His face still glistened with sweat, but his expression belonged to a man who was no longer there.
He wasn’t thinking about me.
He was thinking about her.
Dona Rita Serra.
The woman who had once occupied that space beside him. The woman he’d loved, the mother of his son.
The weight of the past hung over us like a cold shadow.
“Are you okay?” My voice came out softer than I’d intended.
He blinked, as if returning to the present, and ran a hand over his face before stepping back.
“I…” He hesitated, as if the answer was stuck in his throat. “I need a minute.”
It was as if the floor had opened beneath his feet.
He moved away from me and walked to the window, staring out at the city lights below. His posture was rigid, as if he was trying to contain something.
I got up slowly, feeling a discomfort that wasn’t just physical. The way he’d pulled away, as if I were a mistake, a stumble in the middle of grief that had never ended…
I knew this shouldn’t affect me. But it did.
“Fernando…”
“Do you understand what’s happening here?” he cut in, his voice hoarse.
I stayed silent, waiting.
He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound.
“I’m going too far.”
His tone was almost a confession.
“You think so?” My voice came out lower, laced with something I still couldn’t define.
He turned to me, and his gaze was different. Darker. Heavier.
“Rita…” he began, but his voice failed for a second. “Rita was my life.”
I held my breath.
“And Lucca…” He closed his eyes, as if saying the name for the first time in a long while. “I should have died in that car with them.”
My chest tightened.
I knew about the tragedy. Everyone did. The death of the first lady and the governor’s son in a car accident was one of the saddest moments in recent politics. But hearing Fernando say that…
He really believed he should have died with them.
He really didn’t think he deserved to move on.
I approached cautiously, sensing that any sudden movement might push him further away.
“I don’t want to erase what happened.” My voice came out almost a whisper. “But you’re still alive.”
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“That doesn’t mean I should be.”
His words were a punch to the gut.
“Don’t talk like that.”
“It’s what I think every night.” He turned his face to me, and there was a silent fury there. “You think I sleep? I don’t sleep, Glória. Because every time I close my eyes, I see the car flipping, I smell the gasoline, I hear Lucca’s scream.”
I swallowed hard.
“I can’t bring you back to them. But…”
“But what?” He laughed again, bitterly. “You think this between us is going to help me?”
The accusation was there.
Not against me, but against himself.
He wasn’t just feeling guilty about Rita.
He was feeling guilty for desiring another woman.
For desiring me.
“Fernando…”
He took a step back, as if I were a real danger.
“This can’t continue.”
I knew he would say that.
I knew.
But even so, it hurt more than it should have.
I took a deep breath and straightened my posture, trying to compose myself.
“I understand.”
He hesitated, as if he wanted to say something more, but didn’t.
The silence between us was a minefield.
And I realized, right there, in that moment, that it wasn’t just sex for me.
Maybe it never had been.
I was starting to feel something for him. Something I shouldn’t.
And Fernando was desperately trying to pull away before it was too late.
I got home late, after the last meeting of the day. The weight of the past few hours still clung to my skin, like a perfume that wouldn’t fade.
I kicked off my shoes at the door, tossed my purse on the couch, and went straight to the kitchen. I opened the fridge even though I wasn’t hungry, grabbed a glass, and poured wine halfway up. Maybe it would help quiet my thoughts.
Everything still felt saturated with him. His scent, his taste, the warmth of his skin still lingered on mine. But what haunted me most was the look. That lost look, full of guilt, of grief, of something I could never fix.
I walked to the living room and turned on the TV without paying attention to the channel. I just wanted background noise, anything to distract me from the whirlwind in my head.
But then, the image appeared.
Fernando.
Rita.
Little Lucca.
Her smile, so radiant. The joy on their son’s face. And Fernando, younger, lighter. A man who, looking at him in that footage, seemed like a stranger.
I froze.
It was a documentary about the administration’s greatest moments. Images of inaugurations, speeches, trips… And Rita was there, always by his side, with her graceful posture and the smile that won everyone over.
My chest tightened.
I had always admired Rita Serra. Always.
She was the kind of woman who filled a room with lightness, who always knew the right thing to say, who transformed even the cold corridors of the Palace into a home.
I never knew her well, but I’d always heard stories about how she personally looked after the staff, how she cared about social programs, how she was always involved in initiatives for women and underprivileged children.
And there she was, laughing, with little Lucca in her lap, while Fernando looked at them as if he held the entire world in his hands.
And I cried.
I cried for them.
For Fernando, who was never again the man in that recording.
For Rita, whose life was taken so early.
For Lucca, who never had the chance to grow up.
And I cried for myself.
Because I couldn’t, shouldn’t, but I was falling in love with her husband.
And, my God, how it hurt to realize that.
I set the wine glass on the table, buried my face in my hands, and cried harder, tasting the salt of tears on my lips.
“I’m sorry…” I whispered, not knowing who I was asking forgiveness from.
From Rita.
From Fernando.
From myself.
I didn’t want to erase Rita. I never did.
She would always be part of his story, of his heart, and I could never—should never—try to occupy that space.
I needed to pull away.
It was the only right thing to do.