Serafina
Matteo announces it over dinner, the kind of dinner meant to soften sharp news—low lights, careful seating, a room chosen for discretion rather than warmth. Lucia sits beside him, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, not claiming, not hiding. When he speaks, his voice is steady, almost gentle.
“Lucia and I are getting married.”
The words land cleanly. No drama. No theatrics. A declaration delivered with respect.
I smile immediately. Perfectly. The way women like me learn to do when the room expects grace.
“That’s wonderful,” I say, lifting my glass. “Congratulations.”
Lucia’s eyes flick to mine. There is relief there. And something else—curiosity, perhaps. Or understanding. She smiles back, warm, unthreatened.
“Thank you,” she says softly. “It means a lot.”
Matteo watches me carefully, as if waiting for a crack. There isn’t one. I don’t give him the satisfaction. Composure is a discipline I’ve mastered.
“I’m happy for you,” I add, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You deserve happiness.”
He exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. “I hoped you’d say that.”
“I always say what’s true,” I reply.
The conversation moves on. Logistics. Travel. Neutral territory. I nod at the right moments, ask polite questions, compliment Lucia’s ring without lingering too long. The room breathes easier for my restraint.
Inside, something snarls.
It’s not jealousy—not exactly. It’s older than that. Feral and unrefined. A memory with teeth.
When the dinner ends, Lucia hugs me. Her embrace is sincere, her voice low. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“So am I,” I answer, and mean it.
Matteo walks me to the door. We stop just short of it, close enough that I can smell him—familiar, dangerous, unresolved.
“You handled that beautifully,” he says.
“Don’t patronize me,” I reply lightly.
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I would never.”
We stand there, words unspoken crowding the air. He doesn’t touch me. That’s worse.
“Goodnight, Serafina,” he says finally.
“Goodnight, Matteo.”
I leave without looking back.
At home, the silence presses in. I pour a drink I don’t need and don’t finish. I undress slowly, not out of seduction but ritual, as if shedding the evening’s skin. The mirror reflects a woman composed, elegant, unbroken.
I don’t recognize the hunger in her eyes.
In bed, sleep comes in fragments. When it finally takes me, it does not bring rest.
I dream of hands.
Not any hands. His.
They don’t rush. They never did. In the dream, his fingers trace memory rather than skin, mapping places my body remembers before my mind can interfere. There is no context, no room, no time—just sensation sharpened by familiarity.
“You still feel like this,” he murmurs, voice close, inevitable.
I try to speak, to deny him, but my mouth betrays me. My breath does too. In the dream, I arch into nothing, into the echo of his touch, into the space where his presence once lived.
I wake with a gasp, sheets twisted around my legs, heart racing like I’ve run from something wild and lost.
Morning light spills across the room, unforgiving. I sit up slowly, pressing my palms to my thighs, grounding myself.
It was just a dream.
But my body doesn’t believe that.
I shower longer than necessary, letting the heat scald away the remnants of sleep. Water beads on my skin, tracing paths I refuse to follow. I dress with intention—sharp lines, high neck, armor disguised as silk.
Later, Adrian notices immediately.
“You look tired,” he says gently, handing me coffee.
“I didn’t sleep well.”
He studies me, perceptive as ever. “Bad dreams?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Old ones.”
He doesn’t press. He never does when he senses something he can’t fix.
“Matteo told me,” he says after a moment. “About the engagement.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And nothing,” I reply too quickly.
Adrian raises an eyebrow. “That’s not true.”
I sigh, setting the cup down. “I’m happy for him.”
“And?”
“And I’m human,” I admit quietly.
Understanding settles between us, heavy but kind.
“You don’t stop wanting things just because they’re no longer yours,” he says.
“I never believed in ownership,” I reply.
He smiles faintly. “You still believe in impact.”
That night, alone again, the dream returns—not as vividly, but insistently. I don’t touch myself. I don’t need to. Desire hums beneath my skin like a memory refusing to fade.
I sit at my desk instead, sketching designs with sharper edges than usual. Fabric that clings. Cuts that provoke. Power stitched into every seam.
This is how I survive hunger: by transforming it.
Lucia texts me the next day.
I hope last night wasn’t strange for you.
I stare at the message longer than necessary.
It wasn’t, I reply. Congratulations again.
Her response comes quickly.
Thank you. I hope we can talk sometime.
So do I, I realize.
That evening, I stand at my window, city lights pulsing like a heartbeat. Matteo is moving forward. Lucia is calm, certain, unafraid.
And I am still here, composed, capable, feral beneath the surface.
I will not sabotage happiness that isn’t mine to claim.
But I will not pretend that love—real love—ever leaves quietly.
Some desires don’t fade.
They learn how to wait.
And tonight, as I finally sleep without dreaming, I accept the truth that both steadies and terrifies me:
The fire didn’t go out.
It simply learned how to burn without light.