Chapter 15
The meeting had been tense—another in an endless string of them. The conference room still felt stuffy from the weight of political maneuvering, but the night was finally winding down. I should have felt relieved, but I didn't. Just a restlessness that seemed to consume me with each passing minute.
Everyone had left the room, leaving me alone with Fernando. The silence between us was almost palpable. He turned to me with an expression I couldn't decipher, and his eyes, once so full of life, were now shadowed. As if something lurked there, something he wasn't willing to reveal.
“Glória,” he began, his voice deeper than usual. “Can we talk?”
I stared at him, trying to understand what was happening. He seemed distant, as if an invisible barrier had risen between us. I sensed something in the air, something that wouldn't let me relax.
“Of course, Fernando. What do you have in mind?” My voice sounded calmer than I actually felt. I was nervous—anxious, even—but I tried to hide it.
He walked to the window, hands in his pockets, gazing outside as if searching for something to ground him. I stayed where I was, watching him. The physical distance between us had closed, but something much deeper remained—more painful. An emotional distance I couldn't ignore.
I knew he felt it too, but he had this ability to shut himself off, to hide behind an invisible wall I could never fully climb.
The silence stretched for a few seconds until he turned to me with a forced smile. It wasn't the smile he usually gave me—that confident, magnetic one. This was something colder.
“Nothing major, Glória. I was just thinking about how things have gotten... complicated between us.”
My breathing grew heavier, my heart beating faster. I knew exactly what he was saying. I knew what he was feeling—but I didn't want to believe it.
“Complicated?” I asked, trying to stay calm. “You don't seem comfortable with this at all.”
He took a step toward me, and for a moment, words no longer seemed to matter.
I could see the desire in his eyes, but also the frustration.
It was as if he wanted something more but couldn't admit he cared.
Something told me he was pulling away—that he no longer wanted just sex, the way I kept insisting it should be.
Fernando pulled me closer with an inevitability I couldn't resist. His hands gripped my shoulders firmly, and the electricity between us sparked instantly.
He leaned in to kiss me, but before his lips touched mine, he hesitated.
The movement, though gentle, felt like a warning.
As if he was telling me, without words, that something had changed. That he was changing.
But it was too late to stop. We couldn't hold back the desire any longer. Our bodies, so familiar with each other, came together with an urgency only passion can create.
The kiss started soft but quickly intensified, his tongue dancing with mine in a blend of want and need.
But something was wrong. I could feel it.
He was tenser than usual, more controlled, as if forcing himself not to surrender.
I felt aroused but restless at the same time—everything felt strange, off.
He was different, and I knew he wouldn't be able to hold back much longer.
But then, just as I was about to lose myself in the moment, he pulled away. Not abruptly, but enough that the silence that followed was deafening. The space between us suddenly felt too vast. The words he wasn't saying hurt more than anything he could have said.
“This isn't going to work, Glória.” He looked at the floor, the words falling from his lips like stones.
I didn't say anything right away. I was lost, unsure how to process what was happening. What did he want? What did I want? What were we doing? Everything was so confusing, and I felt an anguish that seemed endless.
“It's not going to work if you keep insisting on this,” he continued, his voice lower, more bitter. “You only want sex, and I... I'm not like that, Glória. I can't do it.”
He was right, but at the same time, I didn't know how to fight it. I wanted him. Only him. But in a way I could no longer explain. I wasn't ready to admit that I already cared more than I let on.
The tension in the air thickened. Each of his words landed like a blow, yet somehow left me feeling hollow.
Because I knew what he meant, and I knew he was right.
He didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve to be treated as something impersonal, something disposable.
And I knew I didn't want that either. But what could I do?
He could never truly be mine—I already knew that.
“I just don't want you to regret this,” he said, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I couldn't read.
I felt completely lost.
“Fernando…” I began, but he didn't let me finish.
Without another word, he kissed me again, but this kiss was different.
It lacked the burning urgency, the surrender that used to set me on fire.
It was mechanical, empty—his lips pressing against mine out of reflex, as if it were just a step toward what came next.
There was no passion, no soul. Just an automatic motion, an echo of what we once were.
He was hurt, I knew. He wanted more from me, more from us, and I wasn't giving it.
My hands went to his hair out of habit, pulling him inside the apartment, but the gesture felt rehearsed, lifeless.
He kicked the door shut, the sharp sound cutting through the silence, and shoved me against the hallway wall, his body pressed to mine.
But there was no warmth in his touch—just a raw, cold need, as if he wanted to prove something to himself.
“This is all you want, isn't it?” he murmured against my neck, his voice low and cutting, missing the husky desire I knew so well. It was an accusation dressed up as a question, his lips grazing my skin without really kissing—just tracing a path.
“Don't talk like that,” I shot back, but my voice came out weak, unconvincing, because deep down I didn't know what I wanted to say.
He said nothing more. His hands went straight to my pants, popping the button with a quick tug, his cold fingers sliding inside my panties without care, without warming me up.
He found me wet—my body reacted, even if my heart wasn't in it—and he let out a dry grunt, almost contemptuous.
“Always ready,” he said, more to himself, and spun me to face the wall, lifting my shirt just enough to expose what he needed.
I heard his belt unbuckle, the zipper coming down, and then he was inside me without warning, a quick, hard thrust that made me gasp—but not from pleasure.
It was just impact, just flesh. He fucked me with a mechanical rhythm, his hips slamming into mine without pause, without variation, his hard cock driving in and out like it was a task to complete.
There were no moans, just the sound of our skin slapping together and his heavy breathing, more from effort than arousal.
I tried to hold onto the wall, my hands braced against the cold paint, but I felt nothing beyond the emptiness.
There was no electricity, no connection—just a physical act, a quick release for a need he was pouring into me with anger.
He didn't kiss me, didn't touch me beyond what was necessary, his hands firm on my hips just to hold me in place.
He finished first, coming with a short grunt, his cock pulsing inside me, his warmth spreading but never really reaching me.
I didn't expect anything—there was no way to come like this, not with that abyss between us.
He pulled out soon after, silence cutting through the air as he stepped away.
He grabbed his pants from the floor, dressed quickly, his movements rigid, his eyes fixed on anything but me.
“Fernando…” I tried again, my voice failing, but he didn't look at me. Didn't say a word. Just opened the door and left, the click of it closing echoing down the hallway like a period at the end of a sentence.
I stayed there, leaning against the wall, my shirt crooked, the bitter taste of reality in my mouth.
He was hurt, wanting more than this, more than I could give.
And me? I was stuck in the middle of that emptiness, not knowing what I felt, what I wanted—only certain that something had broken forever.
I only knew one thing: I didn't want to lose him. But he was already pulling away. And the pain of it was more than I could bear.