Chapter 3: Eden

I gather myself and walk to the bar.

The heels help. They always make an exit feel cleaner.

I order a margarita. Something strong and sweet. Shouldn’t clash too bad with the shrooms. I’m only microdosing. Sort of.

I tilt my head back and look up at the sky.

It’s so blue—like I’m in a TV show. Like none of this is real. Like if I blink, the lights will go out and someone will yell cut.

And maybe, if I’m lucky, there’s a happy ending waiting for me on the other side.

But I know better. I know how God plays.

Maybe it’ll end in blood. Maybe it ends with fire. Maybe I never make it out. I can’t bring myself to care.

The drink helps.

So does the sky.

It’s turning gold now—burning at the edges, casting everything in that expensive, dreamlike light. Even this cursed backyard.

The buzz is clean. Smooth. The kind of high that makes me feel like my soul is floating two inches behind my body.

The DJ is under the linen tent by the pool, still playing that sterile, background noise my parents think sounds “elevated.”

It’s giving money. It’s giving nothing.

I toss back the last of my margarita and glide over. He sees me coming and straightens up like I’m about to slap him. Not yet.

I lean in close, voice low and sweet.

“Play Showing You by PARTYNEXTDOOR.”

He hesitates. I don’t. I slide ten grand across the table in a folded band of bills. He nods, and the bass kicks in just as I walk away.The beat pulses like it’s alive, sinking into my veins. Slow. Deep. Possessive.

Golden light filters through the trees, the sky nearly burnt orange now. The whole scene looks like it’s wrapped in a golden haze. The perfect filter for a perfect lie.

I step to the center of the patio, letting the rhythm pour through me. I let it take over, my hips rolling slow, drawing each movement out like I’m savoring it. I know how to move. It’s in my blood. It’s in the way my mother moved when she was still herself. Back before Sergio and the politics and the false smiles. When her life was freedom. When her hips didn’t carry the weight of a man’s expectation.

I feel it in the air around me—the ghost of that woman who danced in the living room to reggae, without care for who saw, without pretending she wasn’t as alive as anyone in the room. She would laugh and spin, and I’d watch, feeling the pulse of her joy fill the whole house. She was beautiful. Powerful.

Free.

Now, she’s nothing but a shadow behind Sergio’s iron fist.

But I’ve got that same power inside me.

The same fire. And for once, it’s mine to control. I roll my waist in that slow, confident circle. The one I know will make him feel it—Salvatore, standing frozen at the edge of the crowd, eyes locked on me.

His breath is shallow now. His stance stiff.

He’s watching me with hunger. The kind of hunger I’m used to, but with him… It’s different. We’ve always seen him as the one who controlled everything—the adopted son who always kept a distance. But right now?

He’s the one losing control.

My body answers the beat, each movement a silent taunt, a challenge. My mother’s memory hums beneath my skin. Her mother’s memory, and her mother’s. The woman she was before Sergio’s hands became chains. The woman who knew how to make men fall to their knees, how to make them ache just with a smile, just with a touch. That’s who I’m channeling now.

That’s who I am.

I let my hands slide down my body, each curve, each dip, just for him. His eyes narrow, that familiar intensity flickering, but I don’t look away. I’ve never been more certain of anything.

I’m not here to please him.

I’m here to remind him.

I’m here to make him feel something.

For all the years of distance. For all the times he acted like I was a burden. I’ll make him feel it all. And God, it feels good. To be wanted. To be seen. To be more than a piece of someone’s legacy.

I flash him a quick smile. A challenge.

His breath catches, and I know I’ve won.

He’s not the only one who knows how to wield power. For once, I hold the strings. And I’m goodat this. I’m good at making them want what they can’t have.

As the final note of the song fades and the patio erupts into claps and scattered cheers, I turn away. I’ve done enough. I showed my face. I danced. I reminded him—and everyone else—what I’m capable of. Now I need air. Now I need me.

I slip back into the house, unnoticed, feet light against the marble floors. Up the stairs, past the closed doors and the soft hum of muted conversation. Back to my sanctuary.

My bedroom is dimly lit by the last kiss of sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains.

Safe. Soft. Mine. I turn on my speaker, the kind of slow, aching R&B that lets the feeling stretch out in every direction. A deep bass and velvet voice. A rhythm I can melt into.

And I do.

I start to move again—slowly, intimately—just for me. No crowd. No eyes. No performance. I sway in front of the mirror, fingertips grazing my own skin as I peel off my dress. Then my earrings. My rings. Everything that made me a spectacle. Now I’m bare. And I still move. Because the desire doesn’t leave—it grows. My hips roll the way they did downstairs, but now every motion is soaked in hunger.

God, I want him.

I close my eyes. He’s there. In my head.

Watching me. Wanting me. And it hurts.

Not the ache between my thighs—I know that ache. I can handle it. It’s the loneliness.

The unbearable need to be seen and touched and understood. And it all circles back to him.

Salvatore.

I want him.

I want him.

I dance through it. Let it burn through me. Let my body speak the things my mouth can’t say. Please, God. I want him.

The high twists everything—colors sharper, sensations deeper. I’m floating and heavy all at once.

And still, I dance. Alone in my room.

Naked. Lit only by the last gold streaks of sun.Bathed in music and want and the quiet promise of something more. Even if I never have him, even if he never touches me—I’ll always have this.

This desire.

This power.

This loneliness.

And the way I move through all of it.

Suddenly, I hear a knock on my door.

But it’s like I already know it’s him.

“Come in.”