Chapter 1: The Lease We Can't Escape
Chapter Text
The insistent beep-beep-beep of Ava's phone alarm sliced through the pre-dawn gloom. 6:30 AM. Another day. Another day of this . She slapped the snooze button with more force than necessary, burying her face in the pillow. The scent wasn't just fabric softener; it was the specific brand of fabric softener Beatrice always used – "Spring Meadow." A pathetic detail, but one that Ava's brain clung to. It was a phantom limb of their domesticity, a ghost scent of a life she no longer had. She inhaled deeply, trying to conjure Beatrice's actual scent – a subtle blend of lavender shampoo, old books, and something uniquely her , a scent Ava couldn't quite define but would recognize anywhere.
She considered getting up and switching pillows, taking Beatrice's, but the thought felt too desperate, too pathetic, even for her current state. She was clinging to scraps, and she knew it.
Ava finally dragged herself out of bed, the chill of the hardwood floor a sharp contrast to the warmth of the duvet. The apartment, a cozy two-bedroom in the Gràcia district of Barcelona, felt vast and empty despite its modest size. Sunlight was just beginning to creep through the gaps in the wooden shutters, painting stripes across the dusty floor. These weren't just any stripes; they were the exact same stripes she'd watched, mesmerized, on their first morning in the apartment, wrapped in Beatrice's arms, feeling like she'd finally found home. Now, they were just stripes of light, mocking her.
She padded towards the bathroom, carefully avoiding the creaky floorboard outside Beatrice's door. It wasn't just a creaky floorboard; it was the creaky floorboard. The one they'd joked about, the one that always announced their movements, the one Beatrice had tried (and failed) to fix with a strategically placed rug. That rug was still there, a silent testament to their shared history.
The unspoken rule was clear: staggered mornings. Ava got the bathroom first, then Beatrice. They'd perfected a silent, intricate dance of avoidance over the past month, a choreography of near misses and averted gazes. It was exhausting, a constant, low-level hum of anxiety that permeated every moment. It wasn't just about avoiding awkwardness; it was about avoiding the pain, the raw, gaping wound of the breakup.
In the bathroom, Ava stared at her reflection. Dark circles underscored her eyes, a testament to sleepless nights and too much cheap wine – the kind Beatrice always wrinkled her nose at. Her usually vibrant, messy curls were limp and dull. She saw a ghost of the "before" Ava in the mirror – brighter, lighter, happier. This Ava felt like a faded photograph.
She splashed water on her face, the cold a momentary shock to her system. She looked at the two toothbrushes in the holder – hers, a bright pink electric one, and Beatrice's, a simple, bamboo one. They used to tease each other about their toothbrush choices, a silly, mundane detail that now felt loaded with significance.
She brushed her teeth with a ferocity that bordered on aggressive, scrubbing away not just the remnants of sleep but also the phantom taste of Beatrice's goodnight kisses. Kisses that now felt like ancient history, artifacts from a lost civilization. She imagined scrubbing away the memories, the feelings, but they were stubbornly persistent, clinging to her like the scent of "Spring Meadow."
Down the hall, she heard Beatrice's door click open. Ava froze, toothbrush halfway to her mouth. She held her breath, listening to the soft padding of Beatrice's feet heading towards the kitchen. Beatrice always wore those soft, grey slippers – a gift from Ava last Christmas. The thought of those slippers, a symbol of their shared comfort, sent a fresh pang of sadness through her.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee, a ritual they'd once shared, wafted down the hallway, a cruel reminder of what was lost. It wasn't just coffee; it was their coffee – a specific blend of Arabica beans they'd discovered at a small, independent roastery near their apartment. They'd spent an entire Saturday afternoon sampling different blends, laughing, arguing playfully about their preferences. Now, the smell was a weapon, twisting the knife of her loss.
Ava finished brushing, rinsed, and retreated to her room, closing the door with a soft click. She dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of ripped jeans and an oversized band t-shirt – a vintage Ramones tee Beatrice had secretly loved, even though she pretended to disapprove of Ava's "noise" music. The clothes screamed "I don't care" even though she cared desperately. She was performing for an audience of one, a silent, painful rebellion against Beatrice's perceived judgment.
She glanced at the easel in the corner of her room, a half-finished canvas staring back at her accusingly. It was a portrait of Beatrice, started months ago, now abandoned and gathering dust. It was Beatrice at her most relaxed, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, her hair loose, a soft smile playing on her lips. Ava couldn't bring herself to finish it. It was a relic of a past she couldn't bear to revisit, a future she couldn't bear to imagine without Beatrice.
The sound of the kettle whistling signaled that Beatrice was done in the kitchen. Ava waited a few more minutes, a calculated delay, giving Beatrice time to retreat to her room, before venturing out.
The kitchen, once a hub of shared meals and laughter, was now a sterile, neutral zone. A single mug sat on the drying rack, perfectly clean, perfectly alone. It was Beatrice's favorite mug – a plain white ceramic one with a tiny chip on the rim, a chip Ava had caused when she'd accidentally knocked it against the sink. Beatrice had pretended to be annoyed, but Ava knew she secretly loved the imperfection.
Ava grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, peeling it with a sigh. She couldn't bring herself to make coffee; the ritual felt too intimate, too much like a ghost of their shared mornings. She remembered the countless mornings they'd spent in this kitchen, Ava leaning against the counter, watching Beatrice meticulously prepare their coffee, the steam rising around her face like a halo.
She ate the banana standing up, staring out the window at the bustling street below. Barcelona was waking up, the sounds of scooters and chattering voices rising from the street. She envied their normalcy, their uncomplicated lives. She imagined couples walking hand-in-hand, sharing pastries, starting their day together. She felt a pang of loneliness, a deep, aching void where Beatrice used to be.
As she was about to leave, she noticed a small, folded piece of paper on the counter, held down by a ceramic coaster they'd bought together at a flea market – a brightly colored tile depicting a whimsical scene of cats playing musical instruments. They'd haggled with the vendor, laughing, their hands brushing as they reached for the same tile.
Beatrice's neat, precise handwriting: “Rent due Friday. Please leave your half on the table.”
Ava crumpled the note in her fist, a surge of anger and resentment washing over her. It wasn't just the money; it was the cold, impersonal formality of it all. They used to share everything, their finances, their dreams, their fears. Now, they were reduced to terse notes about rent, a business transaction between strangers.
She scribbled a reply on the back: "Got it. Don't spend it all on organic kale." It was petty, she knew, and childish and referencing Beatrice's health-conscious eating habits that was a subtle jab. But she couldn't help herself. She needed to lash out, to express her anger, her hurt, even in this small, insignificant way. She left the note on the table, grabbed her bag, and slammed the apartment door behind her, the sound echoing in the empty space.
(Flashback – One Month Ago)
The air in the apartment that night had been thick with unspoken tension, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words. The remnants of a takeout dinner – paella, their favorite, from their favorite restaurant, "La Barceloneta" – sat congealing on the coffee table. Ava had been unusually quiet, picking at her food, her mind miles away, lost in a labyrinth of self-doubt and anxiety. Beatrice had tried to make conversation, asking about Ava's day, her art, anything to break through the wall that seemed to be growing between them, a wall built of Ava's insecurities and Beatrice's growing frustration.
Finally, Beatrice had put down her fork, the clatter echoing in the silence. The sound was sharp, jarring, like a breaking plate. "Ava," she'd said, her voice soft but firm, the tone she used when she was trying to be patient but was reaching her limit, "we need to talk."
Ava had known, deep down, that this conversation was coming. She'd been avoiding it, delaying the inevitable, building a fortress of denial around herself. But she couldn't run from it any longer. The paella suddenly tasted like ash in her mouth. She'd met Beatrice's gaze, her own eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resignation, a pre-emptive surrender.
"I know," Ava had whispered, her voice barely audible, a thread of sound lost in the vast emptiness of the room.
Beatrice had taken a deep breath, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. "I don't think this is working anymore," she'd said, the words carefully chosen, each one a tiny shard of glass piercing Ava's heart, a slow, agonizing bleed.
"What… what do you mean?" Ava had asked, even though she already knew, her voice a strangled whisper, a desperate plea for Beatrice to take it back, to unsay the words.
"We're on different paths, Ava," Beatrice had explained, her voice trembling slightly, a subtle tremor that betrayed her own pain. "I need… stability. I need to know where I'm going, what I'm doing. You're still… exploring. And that's okay. It's wonderful, actually. But I can't… I can't keep waiting for you to figure things out. I feel like… like I'm holding you back. And that's not fair to either of us." It wasn't just about stability; it was about Beatrice's own anxieties, her fear of being a burden, of stifling Ava's creative spirit.
Ava had felt a cold dread creeping through her veins, a chilling premonition of loss. "So, what? You're… you're breaking up with me?" The words tasted like ash in her mouth, a bitter, acrid taste of defeat.
Beatrice had nodded, tears welling up in her eyes, tears that Ava desperately wanted to wipe away, but she couldn't, she wouldn't let herself. "I think it's for the best. For both of us. I don't want to hold you back, Ava. And I don't want to end up resenting you. I love you, Ava. But love isn't always enough." That was the core of it: Beatrice's fear of resentment, of their love turning sour, of becoming a weight around Ava's neck.
The rest of the conversation had been a blur of tears and whispered apologies, a hazy, painful memory. Ava had begged, pleaded, promised to change, to be more "serious," to get a "real" job, to abandon her art, anything to keep Beatrice from leaving. But Beatrice had remained resolute, her resolve born not of cruelty, but of a deep, agonizing love, a belief that she was doing what was best for both of them.
They'd cried together, holding each other close, the scent of lavender and paint – their intertwined scents – mingling with their tears. It was a breakup filled with love and sadness, a bittersweet farewell to a relationship that had once felt like forever, a ship slowly sinking, not with a bang, but with a whimper. It was a quiet, devastating implosion.
(Present – Evening)
The bar was loud, smoky, and crowded – exactly what Ava needed. Or at least, what she thought she needed. A distraction, a sensory overload to numb the pain. She sat perched on a barstool, nursing a gin and tonic, the ice clinking against the glass a rhythmic counterpoint to the thumping bass of the music. The bar, "El Paraigua," was a familiar haunt, a place they'd often come with friends, a place that now held both happy and painful memories.
Lilith, her best friend since childhood, was beside her, her fiery red hair a beacon in the dim light. Lilith was everything Ava wasn't – grounded, practical, fiercely independent. She was also fiercely loyal, a rock in Ava's often chaotic life. Camila, another friend, a free spirit who flitted from one passion to the next, was dancing with abandon, her laughter echoing above the music. Camila represented a different kind of escape – a carefree, uninhibited approach to life that Ava envied.
"So," Lilith said, leaning in close to be heard over the thumping bass, "how's life in the ex-zone? Still practicing your avoidance ballet?" Lilith's voice was dry, laced with her usual sarcasm, but there was an underlying concern in her eyes.
Ava took a large gulp of her drink, the gin burning a path down her throat. "It's… peachy," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "We're practically best friends. We braid each other's hair and share recipes. We even have a chore chart. It's adorable."
Lilith snorted. "Right. And I'm dating the Pope. You look like you haven't slept in days, and that shirt smells suspiciously like despair."
"It's vintage," Ava mumbled defensively, tugging at the hem of her Ramones t-shirt.
"Vintage sadness ," Lilith corrected. "It's just… awkward," Ava admitted, swirling the ice in her glass, watching the liquid slosh around, a miniature representation of her own inner turmoil. "We're like ghosts, haunting the same space. We barely speak. We communicate through passive-aggressive notes and chore charts. It's… pathetic."
"Have you even talked to her? Like, really talked?" Lilith asked, her gaze sharp and perceptive, cutting through Ava's self-pity like a laser beam. "Since the… you know… the apocalypse?"
Ava shook her head. "Just about rent. And whose turn it is to take out the trash. And who ate the last of the organic kale." She added the last part with a bitter twist, remembering her childish note.
"Jesus, Ava," Lilith sighed, running a hand through her fiery hair. "You two are pathetic. You're like two wounded animals, circling each other, afraid to make the first move."
Camila, breathless from dancing, rejoined them at the bar. "What's pathetic?" she asked, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the counter, her energy a stark contrast to Ava's subdued mood.
"Ava and Beatrice's living situation," Lilith explained. "They're basically living in a rom-com, except it's not romantic, and there's no comedy. Just a whole lot of angst, passive-aggression, and the lingering scent of lavender shampoo."
"You need to move on," Camila said, her tone more gentle than Lilith's, offering a different perspective. "Find a new place, a new… everything. Start fresh. Get a cat. Or a plant. Something to take care of that isn't your broken heart."
"Easier said than done," Ava muttered, swirling the remaining liquid in her glass. "Have you seen the rental market in this city? I'd have to sell a kidney to afford a shoebox. And besides," she added, her voice barely a whisper, "I don't want to move on. Not really."
"Then get back together," Lilith said bluntly, her pragmatism cutting through the emotional fog. "Or at least, figure out a way to co-exist without wanting to strangle each other. Or without driving yourselves – and everyone around you – crazy."
Ava finished her drink and signaled to the bartender, a tall, muscular man with a shaved head and intricate tattoos, for another. She recognized him; he'd served them many times before, when she and Beatrice had come here together. He gave her a small, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment of her changed circumstances.
"I don't know, Lilith," Ava said, her voice heavy with doubt. "I don't think there's a 'getting back together' option. She made it pretty clear that we're… incompatible. She said… she said she was holding me back. That I needed to… figure things out. And she's right. I'm a mess."
"People change," Lilith said, shrugging, offering a glimmer of hope. "Maybe you've both changed enough in the past month to make it work. Or maybe not. But you won't know until you actually talk to her. Have a real conversation, not just a snippy exchange about kale."
Ava knew Lilith was right, but the thought of having that conversation filled her with dread. It was easier to hide behind sarcasm and avoidance, to drown her sorrows in cheap gin and loud music, than to face the raw, messy reality of their broken relationship. The fear of rejection, of further pain, was paralyzing.
The bartender placed a fresh drink in front of Ava, the ice clinking against the glass. She took a sip, the familiar burn of the gin a temporary distraction from her thoughts, a fleeting moment of numbness.
"Look," Lilith said, placing a hand on Ava's arm, her touch firm and reassuring, "I'm just saying, don't torture yourself. Either find a way to move forward, together or separately, or… well, you'll end up driving each other – and me – completely insane. And I really don't need that in my life."
(Back at the Apartment - Later That Night)
Beatrice sat curled up on the sofa, a worn copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude open in her lap, but her eyes weren't focused on the words. The apartment was quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator, a constant, low-level drone that usually faded into the background but tonight seemed amplified, a symbol of the emptiness around her. She'd spent the evening trying to lose herself in Gabriel García Márquez's magical realism, but her mind kept drifting back to Ava, to their argument, to the painful reality of their separation.
She'd seen Ava's note on the counter, the childish jab about organic kale. It had stung, more than she cared to admit. It was a small, petty act of rebellion, but it spoke volumes about Ava's anger, her hurt, her frustration. She knew she was being cold, distant, that she was pushing Ava away, but it was the only way she knew how to cope. Letting her guard down, showing any vulnerability, felt too dangerous, like opening a floodgate of emotions she couldn't control.
Her phone buzzed, a text message from Mary. “How are you holding up? Still channeling your inner ice queen?” Mary's messages were always direct, often laced with humor, but always filled with genuine concern.
Beatrice hesitated, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. She wanted to say she was fine, that she was moving on, that she was strong, that she was embracing her newfound freedom. But the truth was, she was barely holding it together, clinging to a facade of composure that threatened to crumble at any moment.
She typed back: “It’s hard. Harder than I thought it would be. I keep seeing her everywhere, in everything. Even the smell of coffee makes me miss her.” She deleted the last sentence, then retyped it, then deleted it again. She finally settled on: “It’s hard. I miss her.” It was the truth, stripped bare, a raw admission of her vulnerability.
Mary’s reply was immediate: “I know, Beatrice. It takes time. But you made the right decision. Remember why you did this. Remember the paella incident. Remember the constant anxiety. Remember feeling like you were suffocating.” Mary was reminding her of the reasons for the breakup, the underlying issues that had led to their separation.
Beatrice closed her eyes, replaying the conversation with Ava in her head, not just the final breakup, but the weeks, the months leading up to it. The mismatched life goals, the fear of resentment, the feeling of holding Ava back, of stifling her creative spirit. The "paella incident" Mary referred to was a particularly painful memory – a night when Ava had forgotten about a dinner they'd planned, a dinner Beatrice had spent hours preparing, a dinner that had ended up in the trash. It wasn't just about the paella; it was about a pattern of forgetfulness, of irresponsibility, that had chipped away at Beatrice's trust and patience.
She had made the right decision, hadn't she? So why did it feel so wrong? Why did every fiber of her being ache for Ava, for her touch, her laughter, her presence?
She heard the key turn in the lock, the sound of the door opening and closing, a familiar sound that now sent a jolt of anxiety through her. Ava was home. Beatrice's heart rate quickened. She considered retreating to her room, avoiding another awkward encounter, but something stopped her. Maybe they need to talk. Maybe avoidance wasn't the answer.
Ava walked into the living room, her cheeks flushed from the night air, her eyes slightly unfocused. She'd clearly been drinking, the scent of gin and something else – a faint, unfamiliar cologne – clinging to her clothes.
"Hey," Ava said, her voice a little slurred, her usual vibrancy dimmed.
"Hello," Beatrice replied, closing her book and placing it on the coffee table, her movements deliberate, controlled.
An awkward silence descended, a heavy blanket of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Ava shifted her weight from one foot to the other, avoiding Beatrice's gaze, her hands fidgeting with the strap of her bag.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence, her voice a little louder than necessary, "I saw your note."
Beatrice nodded, her gaze fixed on Ava's face, trying to read her expression. "Yes. The rent…"
"I left my half on the table," Ava interrupted, her words clipped, her tone defensive. "Along with a witty rejoinder. I'm sure you appreciated my comedic genius."
Beatrice felt a flicker of amusement, despite the tension, a brief flash of the old Ava, the playful, sarcastic Ava she loved. "I saw that. Very… insightful."
Ava finally met Beatrice's gaze, her eyes searching, questioning, a mixture of anger and vulnerability swirling within them. "Are we really going to do this, Bea? Live like strangers in the same apartment? Pretend that… that we don't… that we didn't…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, the weight of their shared history too heavy to bear.
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, a challenge, an accusation, a plea. As the silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable, the TV in the living room, which had been on mute, suddenly switched to a channel showing a cheesy rom-com – a scene Beatrice recognized, a scene they'd watched together countless times, a scene where the two main characters, after a bitter fight, finally reconciled.
A couple on screen were bickering playfully, their argument dissolving into laughter and a passionate kiss. The scene was predictable, cliché, but it was also a reminder of what Ava and Beatrice had lost, of the easy intimacy, the effortless connection they'd once shared.
Ava and Beatrice both glanced at the TV, then back at each other, their eyes locking. A brief, involuntary smile flickered across Ava's lips, a ghost of their shared amusement. Beatrice, mirrored the expression and after a few seconds, they both let out a small, choked laugh. It wasn't much, not a real laugh just an involuntary release.
It wasn't hilarious, but in their current mood, in their current situation, it felt like a release, a momentary break in the tension.
The laughter died down quickly, replaced by a heavy awkwardness, a renewed awareness of their separation. The reality of their situation crashed back down, the weight of their unspoken emotions pressing down on them. The brief moment of levity had cracked the ice, but the deep freeze of their breakup remained, a vast, icy chasm separating them.
"I..." Beatrice started, then stopped, unsure of what to say, her carefully constructed defenses crumbling. The shared moment of levity had cracked the ice, but the deep freeze of their breakup remained. How were they going to do this? How were they going to navigate this impossible situation, living together as strangers, haunted by the ghosts of their past? The answer, she realized, was that she didn't know. And that, more than anything, terrified her.
Chapter 2: Ghosts of Us
Chapter Text
The next morning, Ava woke up with a dull headache, a throbbing reminder of the gin and the emotional turmoil of the previous night. The brief moment of shared laughter with Beatrice, sparked by the cheesy rom-com, had done little to alleviate the underlying tension. If anything, it had made the awkwardness more acute, highlighting the chasm that now separated them, a canyon carved out by unspoken words and unresolved feelings. It was like a phantom limb – the feeling of connection was still there, but the reality was gone.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the scene in her mind, dissecting every glance, every word, every nuance. Beatrice's hesitant smile, the way her eyes had softened for just a moment, the subtle scent of her lavender shampoo that still lingered in the air… It was a cruel tease, a reminder of the connection they'd lost, a ghost of their former intimacy. The ceiling wasn't just a ceiling; it was the same ceiling she'd stared at countless mornings, wrapped in Beatrice's arms, feeling safe, secure, loved. Now, it was just a blank canvas, reflecting her own emptiness.
After a while, Ava forced herself out of bed. She needed a distraction, something to occupy her mind before she drowned in a sea of self-pity and regret. She decided to tackle the dreaded task of cleaning out her closet, a project she'd been putting off for months, a physical manifestation of the emotional clutter she needed to sort through. It was a way to exert control, to create order in a life that felt increasingly chaotic.
As she pulled out piles of clothes, boxes, and forgotten trinkets, she stumbled upon a dusty shoebox tucked away in the back, hidden behind a stack of old art supplies. It was an old Nike shoebox, the orange faded and worn, a relic from her high school days. She didn't remember what was inside, but a sense of foreboding washed over her as she reached for it.
She opened it, curious, and found herself staring at a stack of old photographs, neatly organized, bound together with a faded ribbon. Her heart constricted, a painful squeezing sensation in her chest. She knew, even before she untied the ribbon, what she would find.
It was a photo album, meticulously curated by Beatrice, filled with pictures from their first year together, a visual chronicle of their blossoming love. Each photo had a handwritten caption underneath, in Beatrice’s precise, elegant script, noting the date and location, a small, perfect detail that made Ava's heart ache even more. Ava flipped through the pages, each image a tiny dagger twisting in her chest, a sharp, precise reminder of what she'd lost. Each photo was a portal to a past that felt both incredibly close and impossibly distant.
There they were, beaming at the camera, their faces lit up with the carefree joy of new love, their eyes sparkling with a hope that now felt tragically naive. It wasn't just happiness; it was the beginning of happiness, the intoxicating rush of falling in love, a feeling Ava now wondered if she would ever experience again.
There was a picture of them at Park Güell, Ava's arm slung around Beatrice's waist, their heads tilted together, laughing at some private joke. Ava remembered that day vividly – the warm sun on their skin, the scent of pine trees, the vibrant colors of the mosaics, the way Beatrice's hand had felt in hers, the easy comfort of their connection. She could almost feel Beatrice's warmth beside her, a phantom sensation that made the emptiness even more profound.
Another showed them at a street festival, La Mercè, covered in paint and glitter, their smiles radiant, their faces flushed with excitement. They'd stumbled upon a street performance, a group of artists creating a giant mural, and they'd been invited to join in. Ava remembered the feeling of abandon, of letting go, of being completely and utterly present in the moment, a feeling she hadn't experienced since the breakup.
A few more photos captured quiet moments at home, scenes of domestic bliss. Ava remembered the feeling of complete and utter contentment that now felt like a distant, impossible dream.
Ava traced the outline of Beatrice's face in one of the photos, her finger lingering on the curve of her smile, the crinkle around her eyes. The nostalgia was overwhelming, a tidal wave of memories washing over her, threatening to drown her. She remembered the feeling of Beatrice's hand in hers, the warmth of her embrace, the way she used to look at Ava as if she were the only person in the world, a gaze that made her feel seen, cherished, loved.
She closed the album, unable to bear looking at any more. The images were too painful, too vivid a reminder of what she'd lost, a stark contrast to the cold, empty reality of her present. She shoved the box back into the closet, burying it under a pile of clothes, as if she could bury her feelings along with it, a futile attempt to suppress the pain.
But the memories lingered, like ghosts haunting the corners of her mind, refusing to be banished. She felt a lump forming in her throat, tears threatening to spill over, a physical manifestation of the emotional dam that was about to break. She needed to talk to someone, to vent her frustration and sadness, to share the burden of her grief.
She grabbed her phone and texted Lilith: “Emergency. Coffee. Now. Need to dissect the anatomy of a broken heart. And possibly drown my sorrows in caffeine.”
Lilith’s reply was immediate: “On my way. Your usual haunt? And should I bring tissues or a shovel? (For burying the evidence, of course.)”
Ava confirmed and headed out, needing to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the apartment, the walls that seemed to be closing in on her, whispering reminders of her loss.
Ava was already at their usual cafe, "Café Cometa," a small, quirky place with mismatched furniture, walls adorned with local art, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and pastries, when Lilith arrived. Ava had ordered a double espresso, her nerves jangled, her body craving a caffeine jolt to combat the emotional exhaustion. The cafe was a familiar refuge, a place where they'd spent countless hours discussing life, love, and everything in between.
"Rough night?" Lilith asked, sliding into the booth opposite Ava, her keen eyes taking in Ava's pale face and dark circles.
Ava nodded, pushing a stray curl out of her face, a nervous habit. "I found… pictures," she said, her voice barely a whisper, the word "pictures" loaded with unspoken meaning. "Of us. From… before. The Beatrice archives. Volume 1."
Lilith's expression softened, her usual sarcasm replaced by genuine empathy. "Ah, shit. That's rough. Like stumbling upon a lost civilization. Or a really depressing rom-com."
Ava recounted the experience of finding the photo album, the wave of nostalgia and pain that had washed over her, the visceral reaction to seeing those images of their past happiness. She described the pictures in detail, the specific moments they captured, the memories they evoked, the feeling of loss that had consumed her, a grief that felt both overwhelming and strangely familiar.
"I just… I don't understand how we got here," Ava said, her voice cracking, the carefully constructed dam of her emotions finally breaking. "We were so happy. We were… us. What happened? Where did we go wrong?"
Lilith reached across the table and took Ava's hand, her touch firm and reassuring. "Relationships are complicated, Ava. They're like… intricate tapestries, woven with threads of love, trust, and shared experiences. Sometimes, a thread breaks, and the whole thing unravels. It doesn't mean it wasn't real, or that it wasn't good. It just means… it wasn't meant to last forever. Nothing lasts forever, Ava. Except maybe cockroaches and bad reality TV."
"But I loved her, Lilith," Ava said, tears finally spilling down her cheeks, hot and stinging. "I still love her. And I don't know how to… stop. I don't want to stop. It feels like… like a part of me is missing."
Lilith squeezed Ava's hand. "I know, Ava. I know. And it's okay to feel that way. You're grieving. It's like… mourning a death, except the person is still there, living in the same apartment, using the same damn coffee mug."
Unbeknownst to either of them, Beatrice had also decided to grab a coffee at the same cafe. She needed a break from the suffocating silence of the apartment, a change of scenery. She entered just as Ava was pouring her heart out to Lilith, her voice raw with emotion. She hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the cafe was small, the tables close together, and Ava's voice, though hushed, carried across the room.
Beatrice froze, her hand still on the door handle, her body hidden behind a large potted plant. She heard Ava's words, unfiltered and vulnerable, revealing the depth of her pain and confusion, the raw, aching wound of the breakup. She heard the tremor in Ava's voice as she spoke about their love, about how much she missed her, about the feeling of a part of her being missing.
Beatrice felt a pang of guilt, a sharp, agonizing stab in her chest, a physical manifestation of the emotional pain she'd caused. She'd known, of course, that Ava was hurting, but hearing it expressed so openly, so vulnerably, was a different experience entirely. It was like seeing her own reflection in a shattered mirror, the fractured pieces revealing the ugliness of her actions.
She wanted to go to her, to comfort her, to tell her that she missed her too, that she was sorry, that she'd made a mistake. But she couldn't. She'd made her decision, and she had to stick to it. She had to be strong, for both of them. Or so she told herself.
She silently backed out of the cafe, unnoticed by Ava and Lilith, her heart aching with a mixture of regret, resolve, and a growing sense of unease. The guilt was a heavy weight, pressing down on her, suffocating her.
Back at the apartment, Beatrice couldn't shake the image of Ava, her voice filled with pain, her words echoing in Beatrice's mind. She felt a responsibility, a need to somehow make things easier, even if it meant sacrificing her own comfort, even if it meant reinforcing the walls between them. It was a twisted form of self-punishment, a way to atone for the pain she'd caused.
She decided to establish some "house rules," a set of guidelines to minimize their interaction and create a semblance of order in their chaotic living situation. It was a way to protect herself, to create boundaries, to prevent any further emotional entanglement. But it was also, in a twisted way, a gesture of care, a misguided attempt to protect Ava from further hurt.
She sat down at her laptop, her fingers flying across the keyboard, typing up a list, each rule a brick in the wall she was building between them:
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Shared Spaces: Kitchen use on a rotating schedule (Ava mornings, Beatrice evenings, weekends to be alternated). Living room to be used for individual activities only (no shared TV watching, no joint meals, no casual conversations). Specific shelves in the refrigerator and pantry to be designated for each person.
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Communication: All non-essential communication to be conducted via text or email. No unnecessary conversations, no personal discussions, no attempts at reconciliation.
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Guests: No overnight guests without prior approval from the other party, obtained in writing (via text or email). No spontaneous visits from friends, no parties, no gatherings.
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Cleaning: Shared responsibility for cleaning common areas, to be divided equally, with a detailed schedule to be posted on the refrigerator. Specific cleaning supplies to be designated for each person.
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Quiet hours: Between 11 p.m and 7 a.m, absolute silence to be maintained. No music, no loud conversations, no disruptive activities.
She printed the list and taped it to the refrigerator, the stark black and white a visual representation of the emotional distance between them, a formal declaration of their new, fractured reality. It felt cold, impersonal, almost cruel, but she couldn't think of any other way to navigate this impossible situation, to survive this agonizing co-existence.
Later that evening, Ava returned to the apartment, her mood slightly improved after her talk with Lilith, the cathartic release of tears and shared confidences having provided a temporary reprieve. She saw the list on the refrigerator and felt a surge of anger, a hot, burning sensation in her chest. It was like Beatrice was trying to erase her, to turn their shared home into a sterile, impersonal dormitory, a prison of unspoken words and unresolved feelings.
"Seriously?" Ava muttered, ripping the list off the refrigerator, crumpling it in her fist. "House rules? We're not college roommates, Beatrice. We're… we were … something."
She stormed down the hallway, intending to confront Beatrice, to unleash her anger, her frustration, her pain. But she stopped short when she reached Beatrice's door. She heard the faint sound of music coming from inside, a melancholic cello piece by Bach – Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major – that Beatrice often listened to when she was feeling down, a piece that had always soothed Ava, a piece that now felt like a mournful lament.
Ava hesitated, her anger momentarily deflated, replaced by a wave of empathy. She realized that Beatrice was hurting too, that this "house rules" nonsense was probably just her way of coping, of protecting herself, of building walls around her own broken heart. She couldn't bring herself to barge in and start an argument, to add to Beatrice's pain.
Instead, she retreated to her own room, the crumpled list still in her hand, a symbol of their fractured relationship. She sat down at her easel, staring at the unfinished portrait of Beatrice, the canvas a stark reminder of their broken relationship, a symbol of their unfinished story, a ghost of a future that might never be.
She picked up a brush, dipped it in black paint, a thick, viscous glob of color, and began to work. But instead of adding to the portrait, she started a new painting on a fresh canvas, a blank slate for her raw emotions. She worked furiously, her emotions pouring out onto the canvas in a torrent of color and texture, a violent expression of her inner turmoil.
The painting was abstract, a chaotic swirl of reds, blacks, and grays, a visual representation of her inner landscape. There were sharp, jagged lines, representing the pain, the anger, the betrayal. There were swirling, turbulent patterns, representing the confusion, the uncertainty, the loss. There were splashes of vibrant color, representing the lingering hope, the embers of love that refused to be extinguished.
She painted for hours, losing herself in the process, the only sound the rhythmic strokes of her brush against the canvas, a percussive rhythm of release. It was a catharsis, a way to channel her pain into something tangible, something she could control, a way to externalize the chaos within her. As she painted, she couldn't stop herself from replaying the moment in the cafe she didn’t know Beatrice entered too, the moment when she had poured out her heart to Lilith.
When she was finally finished, she stepped back and looked at the painting. It was raw, powerful, and undeniably… her. It was a reflection of her broken heart, but it was also a testament to her resilience, her ability to find beauty even in the midst of pain, her refusal to be defeated.
She felt a sense of exhaustion, but also a sense of release, a feeling of having purged some of the darkness that had been consuming her. The painting hadn't solved her problems, but it had helped her to process her emotions, to find a way to express the pain that was consuming her, to transform it into something… meaningful. It will all have to be dealt with. And she will start tomorrow. For now, she needs to sleep and maybe try and find a way through the emotional debris the next day.
She put her materials away, exhausted, feeling a bone-deep weariness. Deciding that she wasn't in the mood for any more awkward silences, for any more strained encounters, she decided to send Beatrice a text, a digital olive branch, a tentative attempt at communication.
''To: Beatrice
Saw the house rules. A bit much, don't you think? Like a legal contract for cohabitation. But fine. Whatever. I'm going to bed. Try not to break any rules while I'm asleep." She added a winking emoji, a small attempt at humor, a way to soften the blow.
She tossed her phone onto the nightstand and crawled under the covers, hoping for a few hours of escape from the reality of her life, a brief respite from the pain.
Beatrice, saw the text, read it, and sighed. This isn't working. Nothing is. But what can she do? This is what she wanted, wasn't it? No. No, it wasn't. But it's what she needed, so Ava can move on, so they can move on. It's for the best. That's what she keeps telling herself. It's a mantra, a shield against the doubt that threatens to consume her.
She typed back a simple: "Understood. Goodnight, Ava." A cold response, a formal acknowledgment, a reinforcement of the boundaries she'd erected.
She turned off the lights, leaving the apartment filled with a deafening silence. Only the ghosts remain, the echoes of their past love, the whispers of their broken dreams, the lingering scent of lavender, a constant reminder of what they'd lost. The silence wasn't empty; it was filled with unspoken words, unresolved emotions, a tension that crackled in the air like static electricity.
Chapter 3: New Faces, Old Wounds
Chapter Text
"So, are you going to wallow forever, or are you going to get back out there and find yourself a rebound so scorching it'll melt the polar ice caps?" Camila's voice, brimming with her usual dramatic flair, cut through Ava's self-pity. They were at Ava's apartment, a few days after the "house rules" incident and Ava's emotional excavation of their shared past. Camila was sprawled on Ava's bed, flipping through a fashion magazine – Vogue España , to be precise – while Ava stared blankly at her chaotic, emotionally charged painting, the one she'd created after finding the photo album. It was a visual representation of her inner turmoil, and it was staring back at her, judging her.
Ava sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. "I'm not wallowing. I'm… processing. Like a… a very slow, very inefficient computer."
Camila snorted, a delicate, almost musical sound that somehow managed to convey both amusement and disbelief. "Processing looks an awful lot like wearing the same sweatpants for three days straight, subsisting on a diet of coffee and self-pity, and creating art that looks like a Jackson Pollock painting had a fight with a rainbow."
Ava glanced down at her attire – indeed, the same grey sweatpants she'd been wearing since the photo album incident, now adorned with a new coffee stain. "They're comfortable," she mumbled defensively, tugging at the waistband. "And it's… therapeutic. To… express my inner angst through… abstract expressionism."
"Comfortable is code for 'I've given up on life and am now accepting applications for the position of my emotional support animal'," Camila retorted, tossing the magazine aside. "Look, I get it, breakups suck. They're like… a really bad hangover that lasts for weeks. But you can't let Beatrice win."
"Win?" Ava frowned, her brow furrowing. "It's not a competition, Camila. It's not… a game. It's… my life. My broken life."
"Everything's a competition," Camila said, with a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with playful defiance. "And right now, Beatrice is winning the 'moving on' game. She's got her house rules, her stoic demeanor, her… her aura of quiet suffering. You need to show her – and yourself – that you're not going to crumble. That you're strong, resilient, and capable of… of having fun. Or at least, pretending to have fun until you actually are having fun."
Ava knew, deep down, that Camila had a point. She was letting the breakup define her, allowing it to consume her, to dictate her every move. She was wallowing, retreating into herself, building a fortress of sadness around her. She needed to prove, at least to herself, that she could move on, that she could be happy again, that she could exist without Beatrice. It wasn't about "winning"; it was about reclaiming her life.
"Fine," Ava said, with a newfound determination, a spark of defiance flickering within her. "I'll go out. I'll… date. I'll… socialize. I'll… wear something other than sweatpants."
Camila's eyes lit up, her smile widening. "That's the spirit! I knew you had it in you. You just needed a little… push. And I know just the guy…"
Which is how Ava found herself sitting across from JC, a ridiculously handsome architect Camila had met at a gallery opening – a contemporary art space in the trendy El Raval district – at a tapas bar in El Born. The bar, "Bar del Pla," was known for its innovative, modern take on traditional Catalan cuisine. It was the kind of place Beatrice would have loved, a detail that Ava tried to push out of her mind.
JC was charming, witty, and undeniably attractive. He had dark, tousled hair that looked effortlessly stylish, intense brown eyes that seemed to see right through her, and a smile that could melt glaciers, or at least, make Ava's heart flutter a little. He was also, Ava quickly realized, a little… shallow. Or perhaps, not shallow, but… different. He was from a different world, a world of sleek, modern architecture, expensive wine, and sophisticated social gatherings. A world that was very different from Ava's world of messy art studios, cheap beer, and impromptu gatherings with friends.
"So, you're an artist?" JC asked, his eyes scanning Ava's paint-splattered jeans – she had changed out of her sweatpants, but her jeans still bore the marks of her profession – with a mixture of amusement and admiration. "That's… cool. Very… bohemian." He said "bohemian" as if it were a slightly exotic, slightly foreign concept.
"Yeah," Ava said, taking a sip of her wine – a crisp, white Albariño that JC had ordered without asking her preference. "It's… what I do. It's… my passion. My… curse." She added the last part with a self-deprecating smile, trying to inject some humor into the conversation.
"I've always admired creative types," JC continued, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze piercing. "I'm more of a… practical person. Buildings, you know? Solid, tangible things. Things that have… structure. Purpose."
Ava forced a smile, feeling a flicker of… something. Annoyance? Disappointment? She wasn't sure. She found herself comparing JC to Beatrice. Beatrice, with her love of literature, her quiet intensity, her deep understanding of the world, her appreciation for the abstract, the intangible, the things that couldn't be measured or quantified. Beatrice, who had always encouraged Ava's art, who had seen the beauty in her chaotic creations, who had understood the passion that drove her. JC was like a glossy magazine – attractive on the surface, impeccably designed, but lacking substance, lacking the depth, the complexity, that Ava craved.
The conversation flowed easily enough, but Ava felt a disconnect, a subtle but persistent sense of unease. JC talked about his work, his travels, his expensive hobbies – his recent trip to the Maldives, his collection of vintage watches, his membership at an exclusive golf club. Ava listened politely, interjecting occasionally, but her mind kept drifting back to Beatrice. She wondered what Beatrice was doing, if she was also on a date, if she was thinking about her, if she was feeling the same pang of… something… that Ava was feeling.
The thought sparked a surge of jealousy, a sharp, unpleasant sensation in her chest, a visceral reaction that surprised her with its intensity. It was ridiculous, she knew. Beatrice had broken up with her. She had no right to be jealous. She should be happy that Beatrice was moving on, that she was finding someone else. But the feeling persisted, a nagging reminder of her loss, a testament to the lingering embers of their love.
The tapas arrived – patatas bravas, pan con tomate, gambas al ajillo – small plates of delicious, flavorful food. Ava picked at her food, her appetite diminished by her inner turmoil. JC, on the other hand, ate with gusto, seemingly oblivious to Ava's emotional state.
"This is amazing," he said, his mouth full of patatas bravas. "You have to try this. It's… exquisite."
Ava took a small bite, forcing herself to swallow. The food tasted like ash in her mouth. She remembered the countless meals she'd shared with Beatrice, the simple, home-cooked meals, the laughter, the conversation, the easy intimacy of their shared space.
After dinner, JC suggested they go back to his place. He lived in a penthouse apartment in the upscale Sarrià-Sant Gervasi district, a world away from Ava's cozy, cluttered apartment in Gràcia. Ava hesitated. She was attracted to him, physically, there was no denying that. He was handsome, charming, and he clearly desired her. But the emotional connection was missing, the spark, the… something… that made a relationship more than just physical attraction. Still, she reasoned, it was just a date. It didn't have to mean anything. And maybe, just maybe, a physical distraction was exactly what she needed. A way to numb the pain, to forget about Beatrice, even if just for a few hours.
Meanwhile, Beatrice was having a much quieter evening. She'd met Mary for coffee at a small, cozy cafe near her apartment, "Federal Café Gotic," a place they often frequented. Mary, ever the pragmatist, ever the voice of reason, had been encouraging Beatrice to start dating again, to put herself out there, to embrace her newfound freedom.
"It's been a month, Bea," Mary said, stirring her latte, the spoon clinking against the ceramic mug. "You can't stay holed up in that apartment forever, mourning a relationship that… that wasn't working. You need to… live. You need to… date. You need to… get laid." Mary's bluntness was often shocking, but it was also refreshing.
Beatrice sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I know, I know. But the thought of dating… it's exhausting. And terrifying. And… frankly, it sounds about as appealing as a root canal."
"It doesn't have to be serious," Mary said gently, her tone softening. "Just… dip your toe in the water. Meet new people. Have some fun. Flirt. Remember what it's like to… to feel desired. To feel… alive."
"Fun," Beatrice repeated, the word sounding foreign on her tongue, like a word from a forgotten language. "I'm not sure I remember how to do that. I'm not sure I want to do that. Not without… her."
"You'll figure it out," Mary said, with a reassuring smile, her eyes filled with empathy. "You're smart, you're attractive, you're… well, you're you. And that's more than enough. You don't need Ava to be complete, Bea. You were complete before you met her, and you're complete now. You just need to… rediscover that."
Beatrice appreciated Mary's encouragement, but she couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension, the deep-seated fear of moving on, of letting go of the past. The idea of being with someone other than Ava felt… wrong. It felt like a betrayal, even though she was the one who had ended the relationship. It felt like… cheating.
"I just… I don't think I'm ready," Beatrice said, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in her coffee. "I'm still… I'm still in love with her, Mary. And I don't know how to… stop."
"Maybe not," Mary agreed, her voice soft, understanding. "But don't close yourself off completely. Don't let your past define your future. You deserve to be happy, Bea. And sometimes, happiness comes from unexpected places. Sometimes, it comes from… letting go."
Beatrice nodded, but her doubts lingered, a persistent hum of anxiety in the background. She couldn't imagine being happy with anyone other than Ava. The thought of another person's touch, another person's kiss, another person's… anything… felt… alien, repulsive, a violation of a sacred bond.
JC's apartment was sleek, modern, and impersonal, a stark contrast to the cozy, cluttered warmth of the apartment she shared with Beatrice. It was all sharp angles, minimalist furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city. It was impressive, undeniably so, but it felt… cold, sterile, lacking the personality, the warmth, the… soul… of Ava's home.
JC poured them both a glass of wine, an expensive red from a region Ava didn't recognize, his movements smooth and practiced, like a well-rehearsed performance. He put on some music, a generic chill-out playlist, the kind of music you heard in upscale hotel lobbies, and sat down close to Ava on the sofa, a plush, white leather creation that looked more like a sculpture than a piece of furniture.
"So," he said, his voice low and suggestive, his eyes lingering on Ava's lips, "where were we?"
He leaned in, his hand brushing against Ava's thigh, his touch deliberate, confident. Ava felt a flicker of desire, a purely physical response to his proximity, to his attractiveness, to the implicit promise of pleasure. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on the sensation, trying to block out the image of Beatrice's face that kept flashing in her mind, a persistent, haunting presence.
They kissed, and Ava tried to lose herself in the moment, to surrender to the physical sensation, to silence the voice in her head that kept comparing JC to Beatrice. JC's kisses were skilled, passionate, demanding, but they lacked the tenderness, the familiarity, the… depth… of Beatrice's. They didn't spark the same fire, the same deep connection, the same feeling of… coming home.
One thing led to another, and soon they were undressing each other, their movements hurried and urgent, fueled by alcohol and a desperate need for… something. They moved to the bedroom, the sheets cool and crisp against Ava's skin, a stark contrast to the worn, comfortable cotton sheets she shared with Beatrice.
The sex was… good. Technically. JC was an attentive and experienced lover. He knew how to touch her, how to please her, how to make her body respond. But Ava felt a hollowness, an emptiness that the physical pleasure couldn't fill, a void that ached with the absence of something more.
She found herself going through the motions, responding to his touch, moaning at the appropriate moments, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking about Beatrice, about the way they used to make love, the slow, intimate connection, the feeling of being completely and utterly seen, known, loved. She was thinking about the way Beatrice's hands felt on her skin, the way she whispered her name, the way their bodies moved together in perfect harmony.
Afterward, JC lay beside her, his arm draped over her waist, his breathing even and relaxed. He was smiling, seemingly satisfied, a look of smug contentment on his face. Ava felt… nothing. Just a dull ache in her chest, a sense of disappointment, a profound emptiness. And a surge of guilt, a feeling of having betrayed something sacred.
She realized that she'd made a mistake. This wasn't what she wanted. This wasn't going to help her move on. This wasn't going to fill the void. If anything, it had made her miss Beatrice even more, highlighting the vast difference between a casual hookup and a deep, meaningful connection.
She made an excuse about having an early start the next day, a flimsy pretext for her sudden need to escape. JC gave her a casual kiss goodbye and a promise to call, he didn't protest, his ego unbruised, seemingly unfazed by her abrupt departure.
Ava arrived home late, the apartment dark and silent, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator. She was slightly tipsy from the wine, her emotions a tangled mess of guilt, regret, longing, and a profound sense of loneliness. The scent of JC's cologne still clung to her clothes, a foreign scent that felt like an intrusion.
She tiptoed down the hallway, hoping to avoid Beatrice, to slip into her room unnoticed, to escape the inevitable awkwardness. But as she passed the living room, she saw a faint light spilling out, a soft, warm glow. She peeked inside, her heart skipping a beat.
Beatrice was sitting on the sofa, a book open in her lap, but her eyes weren't focused on the pages. A single table lamp illuminated her face, casting soft shadows that accentuated her high cheekbones and the delicate curve of her jaw. She looked… vulnerable, lost in thought, a sadness lingering in her eyes.
Beatrice looked up, startled by Ava's presence, her eyes widening slightly. Her expression was a mixture of surprise and… something else. Something that looked like… relief?
"Oh," Beatrice said, her voice a little hoarse, her usual composure momentarily disrupted. "You're back."
"Yeah," Ava said, feeling a wave of awkwardness wash over her, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. "Sorry, did I wake you?"
"No," Beatrice said, closing her book, marking her place with a faded ribbon, a small, intimate detail that Ava noticed. "I was just… reading. Trying to."
An uncomfortable silence descended, a silence filled with the ghosts of their past, the weight of their present, and the uncertainty of their future. Ava could smell the faint scent of JC's cologne on her clothes, and she felt a surge of guilt, a feeling of having betrayed something sacred, even though she knew she hadn't.
"So," Beatrice said, breaking the silence, her voice carefully neutral, her eyes searching Ava's face, "how was your… evening?"
Ava hesitated. She didn't want to lie, but she also didn't want to hurt Beatrice. She didn't want to reveal the details of her disastrous date, her emotionally unfulfilling hookup, her lingering longing for Beatrice.
"It was… fine," she said, her voice carefully neutral, her expression deliberately blank. "Uneventful."
Beatrice nodded, her gaze fixed on the floor, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "That's… good. I'm… glad." But her voice lacked conviction, her words betraying her true feelings.
The air was thick with unspoken emotions, a tangled web of jealousy, regret, longing, and a lingering, undeniable connection. Ava wanted to tell Beatrice the truth, to confess that the date had been a disaster, that she'd spent the whole night thinking about her, that she'd made a mistake. But she couldn't. The words wouldn't come. The fear of vulnerability, of rejection, was too strong.
"I'm going to bed," Ava said, turning to leave, her body heavy with exhaustion and emotional turmoil.
"Goodnight," Beatrice replied, her voice barely a whisper, a soft, melancholic sound that followed Ava down the hallway.
Ava retreated to her room, the silence of the apartment amplifying her inner turmoil, the emptiness echoing the void in her heart.
Beatrice remained on the sofa, her mind racing, her heart aching. She'd seen the way Ava had looked at her, the flicker of guilt in her eyes, the faint scent of another person's cologne, the subtle signs of a recent… encounter. She knew, without Ava saying a word, that she'd been with someone else.
The jealousy hit her like a physical blow, a sharp, agonizing pain in her chest, a visceral reaction that surprised her with its intensity. She'd told herself that she wanted Ava to move on, that she wanted her to be happy. She'd convinced herself that she was doing the right thing, that breaking up with Ava was for the best. But the reality of it was unbearable, the thought of Ava with someone else, sharing her body, her laughter, her… self… with another person, was a torment.
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the image of Ava with someone else, but it was no use. Her imagination ran wild, conjuring up images that only intensified her pain, fueling her jealousy, her regret, her longing.
She drifted off to sleep, her dreams a jumbled mess of happy memories and painful realities, a kaleidoscope of emotions that reflected her inner turmoil. She dreamt of Ava, of their early days together, the laughter, the intimacy, the feeling of being completely and utterly in love, the effortless connection they'd shared.
She dreamt of holding Ava in her arms, kissing her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, the feel of Ava's skin against hers, the scent of her hair, the sound of her laughter. She dreamt of their trip to the beach, the feel of the warm sand between their toes, the salty air on their skin, the sound of the waves crashing against the shore, the endless horizon stretching out before them, a symbol of their infinite possibilities.
But then the dream shifted, the images turning dark and distorted, a nightmare reflection of her waking fears. She saw Ava with someone else, their bodies intertwined, their faces flushed with passion, their laughter echoing in the darkness. She saw the look of pleasure on Ava's face, a look that Beatrice had once believed was only for her, a look that now felt like a betrayal.
She woke up with a start, her heart pounding, her body covered in a cold sweat, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like a shroud. The pain of it lingered, a heavy weight in her chest, a suffocating sense of loss.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the first rays of dawn creeping through the gaps in the shutters, painting stripes of light across the room, a familiar scene that now felt tainted, corrupted. She knew that she had to find a way to cope with this, to accept that Ava was moving on, that their relationship was truly over. But the thought of it was almost unbearable. It was going to be a long, difficult journey, a painful process of letting go, of accepting a future without Ava. A future that felt bleak, empty, and utterly terrifying.
Chapter 4: The Charity Gala
Chapter Text
Beatrice stared at the invitation, a cream-colored card stock, heavy and luxurious, embossed with elegant gold lettering that seemed to shimmer in the dim light of her apartment. The Salvius Foundation Annual Charity Gala . It was an invitation she'd normally toss aside without a second thought, dismissing it as another frivolous gathering of the wealthy elite. High-society events weren't her scene; she preferred the quiet company of books, the hushed reverence of libraries and archives, the comforting weight of history in her hands. But this year, her workplace, the Barcelona Historical Society , a small, underfunded institution dedicated to preserving the city's rich cultural heritage, was one of the beneficiaries of the gala. Her boss, a portly, balding man named Dr. Ramirez, whose passion for Catalan history was matched only by his anxiety about funding, had insisted she attend.
"It's important for us to be represented, Beatrice," he'd said, adjusting his spectacles, his voice a mixture of pleading and authority. "Jillian Salvius is a major patron of the arts and historical preservation. She's practically single-handedly keeping several small museums afloat. We need to show our appreciation, to… cultivate the relationship. It's… crucial for our survival." He'd emphasized "crucial" with a dramatic pause, his eyes wide with concern.
Beatrice had reluctantly agreed. She understood the precarious financial situation of the Society, the constant struggle for funding, the ever-present threat of closure. She knew that attending the gala was part of her job, a necessary evil, a performance she had to endure for the sake of the institution she believed in. But the thought of dressing up, making small talk with wealthy donors, pretending to be interested in champagne and canapés, and navigating the complex social dynamics of the elite filled her with a profound sense of dread, a low-level hum of anxiety that settled in her stomach like a cold stone.
She spent the week leading up to the gala trying to avoid thinking about it, burying herself in her work, losing herself in the intricate details of her current research project – the history of a 17th-century convent in the Pyrenees, a forgotten order of nuns who had dedicated their lives to illuminating manuscripts, preserving ancient texts, a world far removed from the glitz and glamour of a charity gala. She even tried to convince herself that it might be… interesting. A chance to network, to meet potential donors, to learn about funding opportunities for the Society, to advocate for the importance of historical preservation.
But deep down, she knew her reluctance stemmed from something else entirely, something more personal, more painful. The gala was a social event, a place where people brought dates, partners, significant others, a showcase of romantic pairings. And Beatrice didn't have one. She was painfully, acutely aware of her single status, of the empty space beside her, of the ghost of Ava's presence that still haunted her life. The thought of attending alone, surrounded by couples, by displays of affection and intimacy, was a cruel reminder of her broken relationship with Ava, a fresh twist of the knife in her already wounded heart. It felt like attending a wedding after a devastating breakup, a constant, agonizing reminder of what she'd lost.
Meanwhile, Ava was experiencing a different kind of anxiety about the gala, a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Camila, ever the social butterfly, ever the instigator of adventures, had secured an invitation through a friend who worked for a catering company, one of the many firms vying for the prestigious contract to cater the Salvius Foundation's events. Camila had initially suggested they go together, as a "girls' night out," a chance to dress up, drink champagne, and mingle with the city's elite. But then she'd had a better idea, a spark of inspiration that ignited in her eyes.
"You know," she'd said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes gleaming with mischief, "they're always looking for volunteers to help with these events. Artists, photographers, assistants, that sort of thing. It's a way to get in, to see how the other half lives. And… you could use your artistic skills. You could… document the event. Or… contribute in some way."
Ava had initially dismissed the idea, waving it away with a scoff. The last thing she wanted was to spend an evening surrounded by wealthy socialites, pretending to be interested in their philanthropic endeavors, navigating the complex social hierarchy of the elite. She was an artist, not a social climber. She preferred the gritty authenticity of her studio, the messy reality of her creative process, to the artificial glamour of a charity gala.
But Camila had been persistent, her persuasive powers formidable.
"Come on, Ava," she'd argued, her voice a mixture of pleading and encouragement. "It'll be fun! Free food, free drinks, and a chance to network. You might even meet some potential clients for your art, some wealthy patrons who appreciate your… unique style. Think of it as… research. Anthropological research. You're studying the mating rituals of the rich and famous."
And, Camila had added, with a knowing wink, a subtle hint of something more, "Who knows who else you might meet? Maybe you'll find your own… wealthy benefactor. Or… someone else entirely."
Ava had eventually relented, swayed by Camila's persistence and by a growing sense of… curiosity. The prospect of networking was appealing, a chance to make connections, to promote her art, to potentially find buyers for her work. And the thought of spending another evening alone in the apartment, avoiding Beatrice, replaying their arguments in her head, was even less appealing. Plus, a small, rebellious part of her liked the idea of crashing a fancy gala, of disrupting the carefully orchestrated social order, of being a fly on the wall, observing the spectacle from the inside.
So, Ava found herself, on the night of the gala, dressed in a simple black dress she'd borrowed from Camila – a sleek, form-fitting number that was a far cry from her usual paint-splattered jeans and oversized t-shirts. She'd even attempted to tame her unruly curls, pulling them back into a messy bun, a few tendrils escaping to frame her face. She felt like an imposter, a fraud, a street artist masquerading as a sophisticated socialite, a wolf in sheep's clothing. Her art supplies and a borrowed camera bag, a professional-looking DSLR that Camila's friend had lent her, were slung over her shoulder, a tangible reminder of her true identity.
The gala was being held at a lavishly restored palace in the Gothic Quarter, a sprawling building with soaring ceilings, ornate chandeliers that glittered like a thousand stars, and walls adorned with priceless artwork – Old Masters, Renaissance tapestries, sculptures from antiquity. The palace, once the home of a wealthy Catalan merchant family, was now a museum and event space, a symbol of the city's rich history and its enduring opulence. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, a heady mix of floral and musky notes, the murmur of polite conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses, and the soft strains of a string quartet playing classical music. It was a world away from Ava's usual haunts, a sensory overload that both fascinated and intimidated her.
Beatrice arrived early, feeling awkward and out of place – in a simple, elegant navy blue gown that she'd found at the back of her closet, a relic from a more formal, more confident time in her life. She'd done her best to style her hair, pulling it back into a low chignon, a classic, understated style that she hoped would convey an air of sophistication. She'd even applied a touch of makeup, a subtle enhancement of her natural features, but she still felt like a librarian dressed up for a costume party, an imposter in a world she didn't belong to.
She mingled with Dr. Ramirez and a few other colleagues from the Historical Society, making polite conversation, accepting compliments on her dress with a self-deprecating smile, and trying to avoid spilling anything on herself. She scanned the room, looking for a familiar face, but everyone seemed to blend together in a sea of perfectly coiffed hair, tailored suits, and sparkling jewelry, a homogenous mass of wealth and privilege.
Ava arrived a little later, feeling even more out of place than Beatrice, her anxiety amplified by the unfamiliar surroundings. She'd been assigned to help with the "art installation," a series of interactive displays showcasing the work of local artists, a curated collection intended to highlight the Foundation's commitment to supporting the arts. She spent the first hour setting up easels, adjusting lighting, arranging informational brochures, and trying to avoid getting in the way of the catering staff, who were bustling around, preparing trays of hors d'oeuvres and setting up the bar.
As the guests began to arrive, Ava retreated to a corner, her camera in hand, her assigned role providing a convenient cover for her awkwardness. She pretended to be taking pictures, documenting the event, capturing the elegant decor, the well-dressed attendees, the carefully orchestrated displays of wealth and generosity. But she was mostly observing, watching the interactions of the wealthy and privileged, studying their body language, their facial expressions, their subtle displays of power and status. She felt like an anthropologist, studying a foreign culture, a world she didn't understand.
And then, she saw her.
Across the crowded room, standing near a towering floral arrangement – a cascade of white orchids and lilies that reached almost to the ceiling – was Beatrice. Ava's heart skipped a beat, a sudden jolt of electricity that sent a shiver down her spine. She hadn't expected to see her there. She'd known, intellectually, that it was a possibility, that Beatrice's workplace was one of the beneficiaries of the gala, but she hadn't allowed herself to truly consider it, to prepare herself for the inevitable encounter.
Beatrice looked… different. More polished, more sophisticated, more… distant. The navy blue dress accentuated her slender figure, her dark hair framed her face elegantly, highlighting her high cheekbones and the delicate curve of her jaw. She looked beautiful, undeniably so, but there was also a sadness in her eyes, a vulnerability that Ava recognized, a flicker of the pain that she knew Beatrice was also feeling.
Their eyes met.
For a fleeting moment, the noise and chaos of the gala faded away. It was just the two of them, suspended in time, their gazes locked, a silent conversation passing between them. Ava felt a rush of emotions – shock, awkwardness, longing, a painful mix of past and present. And a flicker of… something else. Something that resembled hope, a tiny spark of possibility in the darkness.
Beatrice's expression mirrored Ava's. Surprise, quickly followed by a carefully guarded neutrality, a mask of composure that Ava could see through. But then, for the briefest of seconds, a small, sad smile touched her lips, a fleeting acknowledgment of their shared history, their broken connection, their lingering affection, a silent communication that spoke volumes. It was a smile that said, "I see you. I remember. I… miss."
The moment was broken by a tall, imposing woman approaching Beatrice, her presence commanding attention. It was Jillian Salvius, the founder of the Salvius Foundation, the woman whose name was on the invitation, the woman who held the purse strings of so many cultural institutions in the city. She was a striking woman, with sharp features, piercing blue eyes that seemed to assess everyone she met, and an air of effortless authority, a woman who was used to getting what she wanted.
Ava watched as Jillian greeted Beatrice with a warm smile, placing a hand on her arm in a gesture of familiarity, a subtle display of power and connection. They engaged in conversation, Beatrice nodding politely, listening intently, Jillian speaking with animated gestures, her voice carrying across the room.
Ava felt a pang of jealousy, a visceral reaction to seeing Beatrice with someone else, someone who clearly belonged in this world of wealth and privilege, someone who seemed to have Beatrice's attention, her respect, her… admiration? She wondered about their relationship, about the nature of their conversation. Was Jillian a friend? A colleague? Something more? Was Beatrice… interested?
As Ava continued to observe, hidden behind her camera, pretending to take pictures, Jillian turned her attention to the art installation, the curated collection of local art that Ava had helped to set up. She walked over to one of the displays, a series of abstract paintings by a relatively unknown artist, a contemporary of Ava's. Ava, drawn by a mixture of curiosity and a desire to remain close to Beatrice, found herself moving closer, her camera providing a convenient excuse for her proximity.
Jillian studied the paintings with a critical eye, her expression thoughtful, her gaze intense. Then, she turned to Ava, her piercing blue eyes locking onto Ava's, her attention shifting from the artwork to the artist.
"You're the artist?" she asked, her voice surprisingly soft, a contrast to her commanding presence.
Ava was taken aback, caught off guard by the directness of the question. "Uh, no," she stammered, feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I'm just… helping out. With the setup. I'm… a volunteer."
"I see," Jillian said, her eyes lingering on Ava, her gaze assessing, evaluating. "But you have an artist's eye. I can tell. There's a… a passion, a… a fire in your eyes. I recognize it."
Ava blushed, feeling a mixture of flattery and discomfort, a strange combination of pride and unease. "I… dabble," she said, her voice barely a whisper, trying to downplay her artistic aspirations.
"Dabble?" Jillian repeated, a hint of amusement in her voice, a subtle challenge in her tone. "Don't be modest. I have a good eye for talent. And I sense you have it. A raw, untamed talent. Something… special."
She gestured towards the paintings, the curated collection of abstract art. "These are… interesting. Technically proficient. But they lack a certain… something. A certain… rawness. A certain… passion. A certain… truth."
Ava found herself drawn into the conversation, despite her initial awkwardness, despite her apprehension about Jillian Salvius. She started to talk about her own art, her creative process, her passion for capturing emotion on canvas, for expressing the complexities of human experience through abstract forms, through color, texture, and movement.
Jillian listened intently, her gaze unwavering, her attention completely focused on Ava. She asked questions, insightful questions that challenged Ava to think about her work in new ways, to articulate her artistic vision, to delve deeper into the meaning behind her creations. She seemed to understand Ava's art, to see something in it that others had missed.
Beatrice, watching from a distance, felt a complex mix of emotions swirling within her, a turbulent storm of conflicting feelings. She was intrigued by Ava's interaction with Jillian, curious about the conversation they were having, about the way Ava seemed to come alive when she talked about her art, the passion that ignited in her eyes. She was also, undeniably, jealous. Jealous of Jillian's attention, of the way Ava seemed to be drawn to her, of the way Jillian seemed to… understand Ava, to see something special in her.
She saw the way Jillian looked at Ava, a mixture of admiration and… something else. Something that made Beatrice's stomach clench, a knot of unease tightening in her gut. She recognized that look. It was the look of someone who saw something valuable, something worth pursuing, something… possessable. It was the look of a predator.
The forced social interaction was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, the elegant setting, the polite conversation, the clinking of champagne glasses all fading into the background. Beatrice felt like an outsider, observing a scene she was no longer a part of, a play in which she had no role. She wanted to intervene, to pull Ava away, to remind her that she was hers , to protect her from Jillian's… influence. But she knew she couldn't. She'd forfeited that right when she'd broken up with her. She'd relinquished her claim, severed the bond, broken the connection.
The evening stretched on, an agonizing dance of near misses and averted gazes, a slow, painful ballet of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. Ava and Beatrice circled each other, drawn together by an invisible force, a lingering connection that refused to be broken, yet kept apart by the wreckage of their past, by the walls they'd built between them, by the presence of a new, uncertain element – Jillian Salvius. Jillian's presence was like a shadow, a silent threat, a reminder of the new, uncertain future that lay ahead, a future in which Beatrice might no longer have a place in Ava's life. And Beatrice couldn't help but ask herself: what is Ava doing that's so important that this rich, powerful, and clearly dangerous woman is interested? What am I missing? The question gnawed at her, a persistent, unsettling doubt.
Chapter 5: Unspoken Words
Chapter Text
The morning after the gala dawned grey and overcast, the sky a heavy blanket of clouds that seemed to press down on the city, mirroring the mood in the apartment. The light that filtered through the gap in Ava's curtains was weak and diffused, casting a pale, melancholic glow over the room. Ava woke up with a vague sense of unease, a lingering feeling of disorientation, the memory of seeing Beatrice across the crowded room, the brief, fleeting connection, the sad smile – it had all stirred up emotions she'd been trying to suppress, a complex cocktail of longing, regret, and a persistent, nagging hope that refused to be extinguished.
She lay in bed, listening for any sign of Beatrice, any indication of her presence, but the apartment was silent, a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to amplify the emptiness. The unspoken rule of staggered mornings seemed to be in full effect, amplified by the awkwardness of the previous night, by the unspoken words, the unresolved emotions that hung in the air like a thick fog. It was as if they were both retreating, withdrawing into their separate corners, licking their wounds, avoiding any further contact.
Ava finally dragged herself out of bed, feeling a familiar sense of emptiness, a hollow ache in her chest. She made coffee, the aroma a pale imitation of the shared ritual they'd once had, a ghost of their former intimacy. The coffee maker, a simple, black machine, was the same one they'd bought together, a joint purchase that had once symbolized their shared domesticity, their commitment to building a life together. Now, it was just another object, a reminder of what she'd lost.
She noticed a new addition to the refrigerator – a magnetic whiteboard, divided into two columns, labeled "Ava" and "Beatrice" in Beatrice's neat, precise handwriting. Underneath each name was a list of chores: dishes, trash, recycling, grocery shopping, bathroom cleaning, a detailed schedule of domestic responsibilities. It was another one of Beatrice's attempts to create order, to minimize interaction, to turn their shared home into a sterile, impersonal space, a meticulously organized prison of unspoken words.
Ava rolled her eyes, a mixture of annoyance and amusement flickering within her. It was practical, she supposed, efficient, a logical way to divide the responsibilities of maintaining a shared household. But it also felt like another nail in the coffin of their relationship, another layer of distance between them, a formalization of their separation. It was like a business contract, a cold, impersonal agreement between two strangers sharing a living space.
She grabbed a marker – a bright red one, a deliberate act of rebellion – and added an item under her column: "Avoid awkward eye contact. Maintain a minimum distance of three feet. Refrain from spontaneous outbursts of emotion." It was petty, she knew, childish, a passive-aggressive jab at Beatrice's need for control, but she couldn't resist. It was a small act of defiance, a way to assert her presence, to refuse to be completely erased.
She spent the morning trying to distract herself, sketching in her notebook, filling the pages with abstract shapes and swirling lines, a visual representation of her inner turmoil. She scrolled aimlessly through social media, looking at pictures of other people's seemingly perfect lives, a masochistic exercise that only amplified her own sense of loneliness. But her mind kept returning to the gala. To Beatrice. To Jillian Salvius.
The encounter with Jillian had been… unexpected, unsettling, a strange mixture of flattery and unease. She'd been flattered by Jillian's interest in her art, intrigued by her insightful questions, by the way she seemed to see something special in Ava's work. But there had also been something… off… about the woman, a sense of intensity, of… possessiveness, that had made Ava uncomfortable, a subtle undercurrent of something… predatory. It was like being studied under a microscope, examined, evaluated, assessed for some unknown purpose.
She needed to talk to someone, to process her confused emotions, to make sense of the encounter, to vent her anxieties. She needed Lilith's blunt honesty, her cynical perspective, her unwavering support. She texted Lilith: “Coffee? My treat. Need to debrief about last night. Operation: Avoid Beatrice is still in effect, but there have been… developments. Prepare for a full download of awkwardness and potential intrigue.”
Lilith's reply was swift: “You got it. Meet you at the usual place in 30? And should I bring my taser? Just in case this 'intrigue' turns out to be a psycho billionaire with a penchant for collecting artists?”
Meanwhile, Beatrice was also struggling to process the events of the previous night, her mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She'd woken up with a heavy heart, the image of Ava talking to Jillian Salvius burned into her memory, a vivid, painful reminder of her loss, of the growing distance between them. The jealousy she'd felt, the sense of possessiveness, the irrational fear of losing Ava to someone else – it had all been overwhelming, a visceral reaction that had shaken her to her core.
She'd gone through the motions of her morning routine, showering, dressing, making breakfast – a simple bowl of oatmeal with fruit, a stark contrast to the elaborate meals they'd once shared – but her mind was elsewhere. She couldn't shake the feeling that she'd made a mistake, that she'd let something precious slip through her fingers, that she'd pushed Ava away, perhaps irrevocably. The silence of the apartment pressed down on her, a suffocating weight.
She'd agreed to have lunch with Mary, hoping that her friend's pragmatic advice, her grounded perspective, would help her sort through her confused emotions, would offer some clarity, some guidance. Mary was her anchor, her voice of reason, the person who could always see through Beatrice's carefully constructed defenses, who could always cut through the bullshit and get to the heart of the matter.
They met at a small, bustling bistro near Mary's office, a place filled with the aroma of freshly baked bread and the chatter of lunchtime conversations. Mary, ever the observant one, noticed Beatrice's subdued mood immediately, the subtle shadows under her eyes, the way she fidgeted with her napkin, the lack of her usual spark.
"Rough night?" she asked, after they'd ordered their food – Beatrice had opted for a simple salad, her appetite diminished by her anxiety.
Beatrice sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit. "You could say that. I saw… Ava. At the gala."
Mary's eyebrows rose, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. "Oh? And how was that? Awkward? Painful? Like watching your ex make out with a supermodel?"
Beatrice managed a weak smile. "Something like that. It was… complicated. I didn't expect to see her there. And she looked… different. Beautiful. But… distant."
Beatrice recounted the events of the evening, describing the awkward encounter, the fleeting moment of connection, the sad smile that had spoken volumes, the way Ava had looked in her borrowed dress, the conversation with Jillian Salvius, the way Jillian had looked at Ava, the… interest… she'd shown in her art. She tried to be objective, to describe the events without revealing the depth of her own emotions, but her voice betrayed her, her words tinged with sadness, regret, and a lingering, undeniable jealousy.
"I just… I didn't expect to see her there," Beatrice said, her voice a little unsteady, her gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in her untouched salad. "And she looked… happy. Talking to that woman. Engaged. Animated. Like… like she was moving on."
"That woman being…?" Mary prompted, her voice gentle, encouraging.
"Jillian Salvius," Beatrice said, the name leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, a metallic tang of resentment. "She seemed… very interested in Ava. In her art. In… her."
Mary listened patiently, her expression thoughtful, her eyes filled with empathy. "And how did that make you feel?" she asked gently, probing, encouraging Beatrice to confront her own emotions.
Beatrice hesitated. She didn't want to admit to the jealousy, the possessiveness, that had consumed her, the irrational fear of losing Ava to someone else. It felt… childish, irrational, illogical. She was the one who had broken up with Ava. She had no right to feel this way. She had no claim on Ava, no right to dictate her actions, her relationships, her life.
"I… I don't know," she said, her voice barely a whisper, her gaze dropping to her hands, her fingers twisting together. "Confused, I guess. And… maybe… a little… jealous. Which is ridiculous, I know. I broke up with her. I told her to move on. I… I should be happy for her."
Mary reached across the table and took Beatrice's hand, her touch firm and reassuring. "Bea," she said softly, her voice filled with compassion, "it's not ridiculous. It's human. You're allowed to feel jealous. You're allowed to feel regret. You're allowed to feel… anything. You're grieving. You're mourning the loss of a relationship, of a love, that meant something to you. And it's okay to feel conflicted. It's okay to feel… messy."
"But I made my decision," Beatrice said, her voice cracking, a tremor of emotion breaking through. "I thought it was for the best. For both of us. It wasn't just one thing, Mary. It was… a culmination. It was the constant feeling of being… the responsible one. The planner. The… adult. Ava… she's brilliant, creative, impulsive. But she's also… unreliable. Forgetful. She'd forget dates, appointments, bills… It wasn't malicious, but it was… exhausting. I felt like I was constantly picking up the pieces."
Mary nodded, her expression understanding. "So, it was a pattern of behavior that created a dynamic where you felt more like a parent than a partner?"
Beatrice winced, the accuracy of Mary's assessment hitting home. "Yes. Exactly. And it wasn't just the practical things. It was… the emotional labor, too. I felt like I was always the one initiating difficult conversations, the one trying to address problems, the one… carrying the weight of the relationship. She'd say she'd change, she'd try for a while, but then… she'd slip back into old habits. It felt like… like I was the only one invested in building a future."
"And that future looked very different for both of you," Mary added, "That was a core issue, wasn't it? The differing life goals?"
Beatrice sighed. "Yes. I wanted… stability. A clear path. A family, eventually. Ava… she wasn't ready for that. She was still exploring, still figuring things out. And I didn't want to pressure her, to force her into a life she didn't want. I thought… I thought I was doing the right thing, setting her free. Giving her the space to… to grow, without the burden of my expectations." She paused, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "But now… seeing her with someone like Jillian Salvius… it makes me question everything. Did I give up too easily? Did I mistake her exploration for a lack of commitment? Was I just… afraid?"
"Afraid of what, Bea?" Mary asked gently.
"Afraid of being vulnerable," Beatrice admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "Afraid of… of investing everything in a relationship that might not work out. Afraid of… of being hurt." She looked up at Mary, her eyes filled with a mixture of sadness and confusion. "I thought I was being strong, making the rational decision. But maybe I was just… running away."
"It's possible," Mary said, her voice non-judgmental. "Breakups are rarely simple, Bea. There are usually layers of reasons, conscious and unconscious. You identified valid concerns, but it's also possible that your own fears played a role. The important thing now is to be honest with yourself, to acknowledge your feelings, and to decide what you want to do now , knowing what you know."
"Maybe it was the right decision, at the time. But feelings change. Circumstances change. People change. You're allowed to change your mind, Bea. You're allowed to admit that you made a mistake. You're allowed to… want her back."
Beatrice looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together, her mind racing. Mary's words resonated with her, a glimmer of hope piercing through the darkness of her doubt, but they also filled her with fear. The thought of opening herself up to Ava again, of risking another heartbreak, of facing the possibility of rejection, was terrifying. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, poised to jump, unsure if she would fly or fall.
Ava met Lilith at their usual cafe, "Café Cometa," the familiar atmosphere, the aroma of coffee and pastries, a welcome comfort, a temporary refuge from the emotional storm raging within her. Ava recounted the events of the gala, describing her encounter with Beatrice, the awkwardness, the fleeting moment of connection, the sad smile that had said so much, and her conversation with Jillian Salvius, the strange mixture of flattery and unease she'd felt.
"She was… intense," Ava said, describing Jillian, trying to capture the essence of the woman, the unsettling feeling she'd evoked. "Like, she was really interested in my art, she asked all these insightful questions, she seemed to… get it. But it also felt… a little creepy. Like she was sizing me up for something. Like I was a… a specimen under a microscope. Or… a potential acquisition."
Lilith frowned, her expression darkening, her usual playful demeanor replaced by a serious concern. "Jillian Salvius? She's bad news, Ava. I've heard things. Whispers. Rumors. She's ruthless, manipulative, a shark in a designer suit. She gets what she wants, no matter the cost, no matter who she has to… step on… to get it."
Ava felt a chill run down her spine, a prickle of unease crawling across her skin. "What do you mean? What kind of… rumors?"
"I don't know the details," Lilith said, lowering her voice, leaning closer to Ava, as if afraid of being overheard. "But I've heard stories. About her business practices, her… personal life. Shady deals. Broken contracts. Ruined careers. And… relationships… that ended… badly. She's not someone you want to get involved with, Ava. Not professionally, not personally, not… at all."
Ava's initial sense of unease intensified, growing into a full-blown apprehension. She'd been flattered by Jillian's attention, intrigued by her interest in her art, but now she felt a growing sense of foreboding, a sense of… danger.
"I don't know," Ava said, shaking her head, trying to dismiss her growing anxiety. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid. Maybe it's just… gossip. She seemed genuinely interested in my art. She said… she said I had talent. That I was… special."
"Maybe," Lilith said, her voice skeptical, her eyes narrowed. "But be careful, Ava. Don't let her charm you. Don't let her… manipulate you. She's a master of manipulation. She's a… a predator. And you… you're vulnerable right now. You're… an easy target."
Ava nodded, taking Lilith's warning to heart, a sense of dread settling in her stomach. She'd keep her distance from Jillian Salvius. She didn't need any more complications in her life. She had enough to deal with, with Beatrice, with their broken relationship, with her own confused emotions.
That evening, back at the apartment, the tension between Ava and Beatrice was thicker than ever, a palpable presence that filled the air, making it difficult to breathe. They'd avoided each other all day, communicating only through terse notes – a silent agreement to maintain the status quo, to avoid any further confrontation – and the passive-aggressive whiteboard, which had become a battleground for their unspoken resentments.
Ava was in the kitchen, trying to make dinner – something that required minimal effort, minimal thought – when Beatrice came in. Ava had left a few dishes in the sink from her lunch, a minor infraction of Beatrice's meticulously crafted "house rules," a small act of rebellion that she hadn't even been consciously aware of.
Beatrice, her mood already frayed from her conversation with Mary, from her lingering anxieties about Ava and Jillian, from the weight of her own regrets, saw the dishes as a deliberate provocation, a symbol of Ava's disrespect, a challenge to her authority.
"Really, Ava?" she said, her voice tight with frustration, her tone sharper than she intended, the words escaping before she could control them. "You couldn't even bother to wash a few dishes? Is it really that difficult?"
Ava turned around, her own anger flaring, a spark igniting the dry tinder of her resentment. "Oh, I'm sorry, your highness," she said sarcastically, her voice dripping with venom, her eyes flashing with defiance. "Did I disrupt your perfectly ordered existence? Did I offend your delicate sensibilities with my… my dish-related negligence?"
"It's not about order, Ava," Beatrice retorted, her voice rising, her carefully constructed composure cracking. "It's about respect. We agreed to share the responsibilities in this apartment. We agreed to… to follow the rules."
"Oh, I'm sorry, are we back to the 'house rules' again?" Ava said, her voice rising, her anger escalating, "Because I seem to recall you being the one who instituted those ridiculous rules in the first place! You're the one who turned our home into a… a sterile, impersonal prison!"
"They're not ridiculous, Ava!" Beatrice snapped, her voice shaking with emotion, her control completely gone. "They're necessary! We can't live like this, constantly stepping on each other's toes, constantly triggering each other, constantly… hurting each other!"
"Maybe we wouldn't have to if you weren't so… uptight!" Ava shot back, her words like daggers, aimed at Beatrice's most vulnerable spots. "Maybe if you could just relax, for once, if you could just… let go, we wouldn't be having these stupid arguments! Maybe if you weren't so obsessed with control, we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place!"
"And maybe if you were a little more responsible," Beatrice countered, her voice trembling with anger and hurt, her own accusations fueled by weeks of pent-up resentment, "we wouldn't be in this situation at all! Maybe if you'd actually considered my feelings, my needs, we wouldn't have broken up! Maybe if you weren't so… so self-absorbed…"
The argument escalated, fueled by weeks of hidden unspoken emotions, and the lingering pain of their breakup. It was a proxy war, a battle fought over trivial matters – dirty dishes, house rules, a perceived lack of respect – but the real issue was their inability to communicate, to address the underlying issues that had driven them apart, to confront the raw, messy reality of their broken relationship. It was a destructive release of accumulated feelings of anger and hurt.
"You know what, Beatrice?" Ava said, her voice trembling with anger, her eyes filled with tears, her body shaking with the force of her emotions. "I'm tired of this. I'm tired of walking on eggshells around you. I'm tired of pretending that everything's okay when it's clearly not! I'm tired of… of this silence! This… this distance! This… charade!"
"And what do you suggest we do, Ava?" Beatrice asked, her voice equally strained, her own tears threatening to spill over, her defenses crumbling under the weight of Ava's accusations. "Just… magically go back to the way things were? Pretend that the last month didn't happen? It doesn't work that way! We can't just… erase the past!"
"I don't know!" Ava shouted, throwing her hands up in exasperation, her voice cracking with emotion, her control completely shattered. "I just… I miss you, okay? I miss us. I miss… everything. And I hate this… this cold war… this… this agonizing limbo we're in!"
Beatrice's anger deflated, replaced by a wave of sadness, a deep, aching sense of loss. "I miss you too, Ava," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes meeting Ava's, a flicker of vulnerability in their depths.
The admission hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions, a fragile bridge across the chasm that separated them. But neither of them knew what to do with it. The damage had been done, the wounds were too deep. They were trapped in a cycle of frustration and avoidance, unable to bridge the gap that separated them, unable to find a way back to each other. They were at an impasse, a stalemate, a painful deadlock, and they both knew it. The raw honesty, the shared admission of longing, had exposed the wound, but it hadn't offered a solution. It had simply revealed the depth of their pain, the magnitude of their loss. They've reached their limit, the breaking point, but are still not capable of communicating in a healthy way, of finding a path towards reconciliation.
The shared admission of longing, the whispered "I miss you too," hung in the air, a fragile thread connecting them across the chasm of their broken relationship. But it wasn't enough. It was a spark, a flicker of hope, but it wasn't enough to ignite a fire, to bridge the gap that separated them.
Beatrice stood there, her shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on the floor, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her, a bone-deep weariness that made her want to simply… give up. Give up on the fighting, give up on the house rules, give up on the pretense of normalcy, give up on… everything.
Ava, too, felt drained, the adrenaline of the argument fading, leaving behind a hollow ache in her chest. She wanted to reach out to Beatrice, to take her in her arms, to hold her close, to erase the pain, to go back to the way things were. But she couldn't. She didn't know how. The fear of rejection, of further pain, held her back, paralyzing her.
The silence stretched, becoming almost unbearable, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. The dirty dishes in the sink, the initial trigger for their argument, seemed to mock them, a symbol of their fractured relationship, of the mundane details that had become battlegrounds for their deeper conflicts.
Finally, Beatrice spoke, her voice low and strained, her words carefully chosen. "I… I don't know what to do, Ava. I don't know how to… fix this. I don't even know if it can be fixed."
Ava looked at her, her eyes searching Beatrice's face, looking for a sign, even just a tiny bit of hope, a willingness to try. But Beatrice's expression was closed off, guarded, a mask of uncertainty and resignation.
"Maybe… maybe we should just… stop trying," Ava said, her voice barely a whisper, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. The thought of giving up, of accepting defeat, was agonizing, but the constant tension, the endless cycle of arguments and avoidance, was becoming unbearable.
Beatrice didn't respond, her silence a heavy weight in the room. She simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a final blow, a confirmation of their failure.
Ava turned and walked away, retreating to her room, her sanctuary, the only place where she felt safe, where she could allow herself to be vulnerable, to let the tears flow freely. She closed the door behind her, shutting out the world, shutting out Beatrice, shutting out the pain.
She sat down at her easel, staring at the abstract painting she'd created, the chaotic swirl of colors and textures, the visual representation of her inner turmoil. It was a reflection of her broken heart, but it was also a testament to her resilience, her ability to find beauty even in the midst of pain.
She picked up a brush, dipped it in white paint, a stark contrast to the dark, turbulent colors of the painting, and began to add small, delicate strokes, creating points of light in the darkness amidst the chaos. It was a subconscious act, a way to remind herself that even in the darkest of times, there was still light, there was still hope, there was still the possibility of… something.
Beatrice remained, frozen, in the kitchen , staring at the dirty dishes, the remnants of their argument, the symbols of their fractured relationship. She felt numb, drained, her emotions a tangled mess of sadness, regret, and a growing sense of despair.
She knew that Ava was right. They couldn't continue like this. The constant tension, the endless cycle of arguments and avoidance, was exhausting, unsustainable. It was like living in a pressure cooker, the emotions constantly simmering, threatening to explode.
But the thought of giving up, of admitting defeat, of accepting that their relationship was truly over, was equally unbearable. She still loved Ava, she still longed for her, she still dreamed of a future where they could somehow find their way back to each other.
She walked over to the refrigerator, her gaze drawn to the magnetic whiteboard, the symbol of her failed attempt to create order, to control the chaos. She saw Ava's childish addition to the list of chores: "Avoid awkward eye contact. Maintain a minimum distance of three feet. Refrain from spontaneous outbursts of emotion."
A small, sad smile touched her lips. It was so… Ava. Rebellious, sarcastic, yet also… vulnerable. It was a reminder of the woman she loved, the woman she'd lost.
She reached for the marker, the same bright red one Ava had used, and added her own item to the list, underneath Ava's: "Try. Fail. Try again."
It was a small gesture, a tentative step towards… something. She didn't know what. Reconciliation? Acceptance? A more peaceful co-existence? She didn't have the answers. But she knew that she couldn't just give up. She had to try. Even if it meant failing. Again and again.
She went to her room, the silence of the apartment pressing down on her, a heavy weight on her chest. She sat down at her desk, her gaze falling on a framed photograph – a picture of her and Ava, taken during their trip to the beach, the one that had haunted her dreams. They were laughing, their faces radiant with happiness, their bodies intertwined, a perfect image of their love, a reminder of what they'd had, of what they'd lost.
She picked up the photograph, her fingers tracing the outline of Ava's face, her smile, her eyes, the way she looked at Beatrice with such love, such adoration. A tear slipped down her cheek, a single drop of sadness, a testament to the pain she was feeling.
She had a lot to think about, a lot to consider. But for now, she needed to rest, to gather her strength, to prepare for the uncertain future. She had admitted she missed Ava, and then accepted Ava's suggestion of just 'stopping'. What happens now?
Chapter 6: Accidental Intimacy
Chapter Text
The tense silence that had fallen after their argument, after Ava's suggestion to "just stop trying" and Beatrice's silent acquiescence, hung heavy in the air, a suffocating blanket of unspoken words and unresolved emotions. It was a silence filled with the ghosts of their past, the weight of their present, and the terrifying uncertainty of their future. Ava had retreated to her room, slamming the door behind her – a childish act, she knew, but one that provided a momentary sense of release, a physical manifestation of the emotional barrier she'd erected between them – while Beatrice remained in the kitchen, staring at the half-washed dishes, the remnants of their unfinished meal, the symbols of their fractured relationship. She felt a wave of exhaustion, a bone-deep weariness that made her want to curl up in a ball and disappear.
After painting, Ava threw herself onto her bed, face down, her tears soaking into the pillow. She'd finally admitted that she missed Beatrice, that she missed their relationship, that she hated the agonizing limbo they were in, but it hadn't changed anything. If anything, it had made things worse, exposing the raw wound of their separation, highlighting the seemingly insurmountable obstacles that stood between them. It felt like they were trapped in a maze, endlessly circling each other, unable to find a way out, unable to find their way back to each other.
She grabbed her phone, intending to text Lilith, to vent her frustration, to seek solace in her friend's blunt honesty and unwavering support. But as she unlocked the screen, her finger hovering over Lilith's contact, the lights flickered – a brief, almost imperceptible dimming – and then died, plunging the apartment into darkness.
A collective groan echoed from the neighboring apartments, a chorus of frustration and resignation. A power outage. Just what she needed. Another layer of chaos added to the already overwhelming mess of her life. It felt like a cruel joke, a cosmic prank, a sign that the universe was conspiring against her.
Ava fumbled for her phone's flashlight, activating the bright, white beam that illuminated her room with a harsh, unflattering glare. The sudden darkness, coupled with the emotional turmoil of the argument, had left her feeling unsettled, disoriented, her senses heightened. She wasn't afraid of the dark, exactly – she'd never been one for childish fears – but the sudden loss of light, the unexpected plunge into blackness, amplified her sense of vulnerability, her feeling of being lost, adrift.
"Beatrice?" she called out, her voice echoing in the darkness, a tentative sound that betrayed her uncertainty. She hesitated, her hand still on the doorknob, half-expecting, half-hoping that Beatrice wouldn't answer, that she could retreat back into the solitude of her room, into the darkness that mirrored her emotional state.
She heard a muffled reply from Beatrice's room, a soft sound that barely registered above the sudden silence of the apartment. "I'm here." Beatrice's voice was subdued, lacking its usual clarity, its usual confidence.
Ava made her way to Beatrice's door, the beam of her flashlight dancing across the walls, illuminating the familiar hallway in a strange, distorted light. The familiar objects – the framed photographs, the small bookshelf, the coat rack – seemed different in the darkness, transformed into unfamiliar shapes, casting long, eerie shadows.
She found Beatrice sitting on her bed, her phone also illuminating her face, casting a pale, ghostly glow on her features. She looked… small, somehow, vulnerable, her usual composure stripped away by the darkness, by the emotional weight of their argument.
"Power's out," Beatrice said, stating the obvious, her voice flat, devoid of emotion.
"Yeah, I noticed," Ava replied, her voice still tinged with the remnants of their argument, a subtle undercurrent of resentment lingering beneath the surface.
An awkward silence descended, a heavy, suffocating silence that amplified the tension between them. Neither of them knew what to say, how to navigate this unexpected situation, how to bridge the gap that had widened between them. The darkness seemed to magnify their separation, to highlight the emotional distance that had grown between them.
"Do you… do you have any candles?" Ava asked, breaking the silence, her voice hesitant, unsure. It was a practical question, a mundane inquiry, but it felt loaded with unspoken meaning, a tentative step towards… something.
"I think so," Beatrice said, her voice equally hesitant. "In the kitchen cupboard. Top shelf, on the left. Behind the… the emergency stash of chocolate." She added the last part with a faint trace of a smile, a flicker of their old, shared humor.
Ava made her way back to the kitchen, her flashlight beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating the familiar space in an unfamiliar light. The kitchen, usually a place of warmth and shared meals, felt cold and empty in the darkness, the silence amplifying the sense of loss.
She found the candles, a box of mismatched tapers they'd accumulated over the years, remnants of romantic dinners, power outages past, and impulsive purchases at flea markets. There were tall, elegant white candles, short, stubby colored candles, and a few oddly shaped ones they'd bought on a whim. She also found the lighter, a simple, metal one they'd kept for years.
She lit a few candles, placing them strategically around the kitchen and living room – one on the kitchen table, one on the coffee table, one on the windowsill. The soft, flickering light created a warm, intimate atmosphere, a stark contrast to the harsh glare of their phone flashlights, transforming the familiar space into something… different, something… magical. The candlelight danced across the walls, casting long, dancing shadows, creating an illusion of movement, of life, in the otherwise still and silent apartment.
Beatrice emerged from her room, her silhouette outlined by the candlelight, her figure softened by the shadows. She looked… softer, somehow, in the dim light. More vulnerable, more approachable, less… guarded. The candlelight illuminated her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her jaw, the shadows under her eyes, the faint trace of sadness that lingered in her expression.
"Better," she said, her voice a little less guarded than usual, a subtle shift in her tone, a hint of… something… else. Relief? Appreciation? Ava couldn't quite decipher it.
Ava nodded, unable to meet Beatrice's gaze, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness, a heightened awareness of her own appearance, of her messy hair, her tear-stained face, her rumpled clothes. The forced proximity, the unexpected intimacy of the candlelight, was making her feel flustered, unsettled, her heart beating a little faster than usual.
They stood there for a moment, suspended in the flickering candlelight, unsure of what to do next, how to navigate this new, unexpected dynamic. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the occasional crackle of the candles, the faint sounds of the city outside filtering through the closed windows.
"I… I guess we should eat something," Ava said, finally breaking the silence, her voice a little unsteady, her stomach twisting with a mixture of hunger and anxiety. "Before everything in the fridge goes bad. And… before we succumb to the darkness and start gnawing on furniture." She added the last part with a forced attempt at humor, a way to diffuse the tension.
Beatrice nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Good idea. A… a power outage feast. It'll be… an adventure."
They opened the refrigerator, the interior light briefly illuminating their faces, casting a stark, white glow that contrasted with the warm, flickering candlelight. They surveyed the contents, a motley assortment of leftovers, vegetables, condiments, and half-empty containers – the remnants of their separate lives, their individual meals, their solitary existence.
"We could make… a salad?" Ava suggested, her voice hesitant, unsure, picking at a stray piece of lettuce. "A very… sad, wilted salad."
"Or… a very strange omelet?" Beatrice added, a hint of amusement in her voice, a flicker of their old, shared humor. "With… everything. A… culinary experiment."
They ended up making a makeshift meal of whatever they could find: a salad of wilted lettuce, some leftover pasta from Ava's dinner a few nights before, a few slices of cheese that were nearing their expiration date, a half-empty jar of olives that Beatrice had been saving for a special occasion, and a handful of cherry tomatoes that were starting to wrinkle. It wasn't exactly gourmet, it wasn't even particularly appetizing, but it was… something. It was a shared effort, a collaborative act, a small step towards… connection.
They sat down at the small kitchen table, the candles casting flickering shadows on their faces, creating an intimate, almost romantic atmosphere. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of their forks against their plates, the gentle crackle of the candles, the faint hum of the city outside.
"This is… surprisingly edible," Ava said, breaking the silence, her voice a little surprised, a hint of amusement in her tone. "For a… post-apocalyptic meal."
Beatrice smiled, a genuine smile that reached her eyes, a smile that made Ava's heart skip a beat. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. And… surprisingly creative culinary combinations."
The shared meal, the simple act of eating together, seemed to ease the tension between them, creating a space for vulnerability, for connection. The candlelight, the forced intimacy, the shared experience of the power outage – it all conspired to create a sense of… closeness, a feeling of… shared humanity.
"I… I didn't mean what I said earlier," Ava said, her voice soft, hesitant, her gaze fixed on her plate, her fingers tracing the pattern on the tablecloth. "About… hating this charade. I don't hate it. I just… I miss you. I miss… us. I miss… this." She gestured around the room, encompassing the apartment, their shared space, their shared history.
Beatrice looked down at her plate, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable. "I know," she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper, her words filled with a mixture of sadness and… something else. Regret? Longing? Hope? "I miss you too, Ava. More than… more than I can say."
Ava took a deep breath, gathering her courage, her resolve strengthened by the candlelight, by the intimacy of the moment. "I've been… thinking," she continued, her voice a little stronger, her gaze meeting Beatrice's, "about what you said. About… needing stability. And… about me… needing to… grow up. And… I get it. I do. I haven't been… the most responsible person. I've been… drifting. Avoiding. Hiding. But I'm trying. I'm really trying. I'm… I'm working on it."
Beatrice looked up, meeting Ava's gaze, her eyes searching Ava's face, looking for… something. Sincerity? Truth? Hope? "I know you are, Ava," she said, her voice soft, her tone genuine. "I see it. The art show, even…even this." she gestured at their shared meal. "It's…"
"Pathetic?" Ava offered, a self-deprecating smile on her lips, a hint of her old sarcasm returning.
"No," Beatrice said, shaking her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "It's… progress. It's you, trying. And I… I appreciate it. I… see it."
Ava felt a flicker of hope, a tiny spark in the darkness, a warmth spreading through her chest. "So… what does that mean?" she asked, her voice hesitant, her heart pounding in her chest, the question hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. "For us? Is there… is there a chance?"
Beatrice sighed, a long, slow exhale, her gaze dropping back to her plate. "I don't know, Ava," she said honestly, her voice filled with uncertainty, with a lingering sadness. "I wish I had the answers. I wish I could tell you that everything's going to be okay, that we can just… go back to the way things were. But I can't. I'm still… scared. Of messing things up again. Of hurting you again. Of… of repeating the past."
"I'm scared too," Ava admitted, her voice barely a whisper, her own fears mirroring Beatrice's. "But… maybe we can be scared together. Maybe we can… figure it out. Together. Maybe… maybe we can learn from our mistakes. Maybe… maybe we can… try again."
As she spoke, Ava reached across the table, her hand hovering over Beatrice's, her fingers trembling slightly. Their fingers brushed, a light, accidental touch, a fleeting connection, but it sent a jolt of electricity through Ava's body, a spark of… something… igniting within her. It was a physical manifestation of the lingering connection between them, a reminder of the passion that had once burned so brightly.
Beatrice's breath hitched, a sharp intake of air, her eyes widening slightly. She looked down at their hands, the space between them charged with unspoken desires, with the memory of countless touches, countless kisses, countless moments of intimacy. The spark was still there, undeniable, a flicker of the passion that had once burned so brightly between them, a testament to the enduring power of their connection.
Ava quickly pulled her hand away, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and longing, a wave of self-consciousness washing over her. "Sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely audible, her gaze dropping to her lap. "I… I didn't mean to…"
"No, it's… it's okay," Beatrice said, her voice a little unsteady, her own cheeks tinged with a faint blush. "It's just… a lot. To… process."
The tension had returned, but it was different now. It wasn't the cold, awkward tension of avoidance, of unspoken resentments. It was the charged, electric tension of suppressed desires, of rekindled feelings, of uncertain possibilities. It was the tension of… hope.
They finished their meal in silence, but it was a different kind of silence. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with shared glances, with a sense of… possibility, a sense of… anticipation. It was a silence that felt… pregnant with potential.
The power remained out for the rest of the evening. They sat in the living room, illuminated by the soft glow of the candles, the flickering light casting dancing shadows on the walls, creating an intimate, almost magical atmosphere. They talked. Not about the big things, not about the breakup, not about the future. But about… everything else.
They talked about their work, Beatrice describing her research on the 17th-century convent. They talked about their friends, Ava recounting Lilith's warning about Jillian Salvius, Beatrice sharing Mary's encouragement to start dating again. They talked about their families, about their childhoods, about their dreams, about their fears.
They talked about the gala, about the awkwardness of seeing each other in that setting. Beatrice admitted to her own feelings of jealousy, her own anxieties about Ava and Jillian, her own lingering insecurities.
They talked about their past, about the good times and the bad, about the happy memories and the painful ones, about the mistakes they'd made, about the things they'd learned. They talked about the little things, the mundane details of their lives, the things they'd missed sharing with each other.
It wasn't a magical reconciliation. There were no grand gestures, no dramatic declarations of undying love, no sweeping promises of a perfect future. But it was a start. It was a crack in the ice, a glimmer of hope in the darkness, a tentative step towards… something. It was a conversation, a real conversation, the first one they'd had in weeks.
As the evening drew to a close, they found themselves sitting side-by-side on the sofa, their shoulders brushing, their bodies close, but not touching. The candles had burned low, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls, creating an atmosphere of intimacy, of vulnerability, of… possibility.
"I should… probably go to bed," Ava said, her voice hesitant, unsure, reluctant to break the spell of the evening.
Beatrice nodded. "Me too."
But neither of them moved. They sat there, in the flickering candlelight, the silence between them comfortable, intimate, charged with unspoken desires, with lingering feelings.
Ava leaned her head against Beatrice's shoulder, just for a moment, a small gesture, a tentative touch, a test of the waters. Beatrice didn't pull away. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of Ava's closeness, the warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the familiar comfort of her presence. It was a moment of peace, a moment of connection, a moment of… hope.
It was a small gesture, a fleeting moment of connection, but it was enough. It was a reminder of what they'd had, of what they could have again, of the enduring power of their love. It was a spark, a glimmer, a promise.
Finally, Ava pulled away, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. "Goodnight, Bea," she whispered, her voice soft, filled with a tenderness that had been missing for weeks.
"Goodnight, Ava," Beatrice replied, her voice equally soft, her gaze lingering on Ava's face, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
They went to their separate rooms, the darkness of the apartment a little less daunting, the silence a little less empty, the future a little less uncertain. The power was still out, but something had shifted. A spark had been rekindled, a door had been opened, a possibility had been revealed. The journey ahead was still uncertain, the path still unclear, but for the first time in a long time, they weren't facing it alone. The accidental intimacy of the blackout, the forced vulnerability of the darkness, had created a space for connection, for communication, for… hope. Now, they just had to decide if they were brave enough to walk through that door, to explore that possibility, to embrace that hope, to… try again.
Chapter 7: The Morning After
Chapter Text
The harsh glare of the morning sun, streaming through a gap in Ava's curtains, woke her. It was a stark, unforgiving light, a rude awakening after the soft, intimate glow of the candlelight the night before. She blinked, disoriented, her mind still hazy with sleep, fragments of dreams mingling with the lingering memories of the evening. The power was back on, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant sounds of traffic, the familiar noises of the city – they all seemed amplified, jarring, after the quiet intimacy of the blackout. It was as if the world had been reset, returned to its default settings, erasing the magic of the previous night.
She lay in bed, replaying the events of the blackout, dissecting every moment, every word, every touch. The candlelight, the shared meal, the conversation, the accidental brush of their hands, the way Beatrice had let her lean on her shoulder… It had all felt so… real. So close to what they'd once had, a glimpse of the connection they'd shared, a flicker of the love that still lingered beneath the surface. But now, in the harsh light of day, she wasn't so sure. Doubts crept in, whispering insidious questions in her ear.
Had it just been a momentary lapse? A product of the forced intimacy, the darkness, the shared vulnerability, a fleeting illusion created by the circumstances? Or had it been something more? Had it been a genuine step towards reconciliation, a sign that there was still hope for them, a possibility of rebuilding what they'd lost?
She felt a mixture of hope and confusion, a swirling vortex of emotions that left her feeling unsettled, anxious. The hope was a fragile thing, a tiny seedling struggling to grow in the barren landscape of their broken relationship. The confusion was a dense fog, obscuring the path ahead, making it impossible to see what the future held.
She got out of bed, feeling a familiar awkwardness creeping back in, the ghost of their old routine returning. The unspoken rule of staggered mornings seemed to be back in effect, despite the previous night's intimacy, a silent agreement to maintain a distance, to avoid any further awkward encounters. She waited, listening for any sign of Beatrice, any indication of her presence, but the apartment was silent, a heavy, expectant silence that amplified her uncertainty.
She made coffee, the ritual feeling less like a ghost of their past and more like… a possibility, a tentative step towards reclaiming a semblance of their former life. The coffee maker, the mugs, the familiar aroma – they were all reminders of their shared history, of the simple, everyday moments that had once defined their relationship. She wondered if Beatrice was feeling the same way, if she was also replaying the events of the night, questioning their meaning, struggling with the same mixture of hope and confusion.
Beatrice woke up a little later, feeling a similar mixture of emotions, a cocktail of hope, confusion, longing, and a lingering sense of… unease. She'd dreamt of Ava, vivid, intense dreams that had left her feeling both exhilarated and heartbroken. She'd dreamt of their shared laughter, of the feel of Ava's hand in hers, of the way Ava's eyes lit up when she talked about her art, of the simple, everyday moments of intimacy they'd once shared. She'd also dreamt of the blackout, of the candlelight, of the conversation they'd had, of the accidental touch that had sent a jolt of electricity through her body.
But the dreams had also been tinged with sadness, with a sense of loss, with the constant, nagging reminder that their reality was far from the idyllic world of her dreams. The reality was a broken relationship, a shared apartment filled with unspoken words and unresolved emotions, a future that was uncertain, unclear.
She got dressed, trying to act normal, trying to push aside the confusion and uncertainty that were swirling inside her, trying to focus on the practicalities of the day ahead. She went to the kitchen, expecting to find it empty, expecting to find the usual signs of Ava's solitary morning routine. But Ava was there, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, her gaze fixed on something outside the window, her expression unreadable.
"Morning," Ava said, her voice a little hesitant, a subtle tremor betraying her own uncertainty.
"Morning," Beatrice replied, feeling a familiar awkwardness settle over them, a palpable tension in the air. It was as if the intimacy of the previous night had created a new layer of complexity, a heightened awareness of each other, a sensitivity to every gesture, every word, every nuance.
They stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, how to act, how to navigate this new, uncertain terrain. The memory of the candlelight, of the shared meal, of the conversation, of the accidental touch – it all hung in the air between them, a silent reminder of the possibility, but also of the fragility, of their connection.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence, her voice a little too bright, a forced attempt at normalcy. "Power's back. Civilization restored. We can all go back to ignoring each other in well-lit rooms."
Beatrice managed a weak smile. "Yes," she replied, stating the obvious, her voice lacking its usual conviction. "That's… good. Convenient."
They fell silent again, the unspoken question hanging in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning: What now? Where do we go from here? What does last night mean?
Ava gestured towards the coffee pot, a ceramic pot they'd bought at a local craft fair, a small, tangible reminder of their shared past. "I made coffee. There's plenty. I even used the… the special beans." She referred to their favorite blend, the one they'd discovered together.
"Thanks," Beatrice said, pouring herself a cup, the aroma filling the kitchen, a familiar, comforting scent that evoked a bittersweet pang of nostalgia.
They sat down at the table, a careful distance between them, a physical manifestation of the emotional space they were still trying to maintain. They sipped their coffee in silence, the only sound the gentle clinking of their mugs, the distant sounds of the city outside, the faint hum of the refrigerator. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with unresolved emotions, with a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
"About last night…" Ava began, her voice hesitant, her gaze fixed on her coffee cup, her fingers tracing the rim.
Beatrice looked up, meeting Ava's gaze, her heart pounding in her chest. "Yes?" she prompted, her voice barely a whisper, her own anxiety mirroring Ava's.
"I… I just wanted to say… it was nice," Ava said, her cheeks flushing slightly, a delicate pink coloring her skin. "Talking to you. Like… really talking. Like… we used to."
Beatrice nodded, her own heart aching with a mixture of longing and regret. "It was," she agreed, her voice soft, her tone genuine. "I… I enjoyed it too. I… I've missed that. Talking to you. Being… close."
But the awkwardness remained, a tangible barrier between them, a wall built of unspoken fears, unresolved conflicts, and the lingering pain of their breakup. They were trying to act normal, to pretend that everything was okay, but they were both acutely aware of the shift that had occurred, of the unspoken desires, the uncertain future, the fragile hope that had been rekindled. It was like walking on eggshells, afraid to make a wrong move, afraid to shatter the delicate balance they'd achieved.
Later that day, as Beatrice was preparing to leave for work, her phone buzzed, an email notification popping up on the screen. It was from Jillian Salvius. Her stomach clenched before she could help it.
Subject: Potential Collaboration - Confidential
Dear Ms. Beatrice,
I trust this email finds you well.
Following our brief but engaging conversation at the gala, I was very impressed with your knowledge and expertise regarding Catalan history, particularly your current research on the 17th-century convent in the Pyrenees. As you may know, the Salvius Foundation is deeply committed to supporting historical preservation and cultural heritage projects, both locally and internationally.
I am currently developing a new initiative, a highly confidential project that requires extensive historical research and analysis. I believe your skills and experience would be invaluable to this endeavor. Your deep understanding of the period, your meticulous attention to detail, and your passion for uncovering hidden histories are precisely the qualities I am seeking.
I would like to invite you to my office to discuss this further, to provide you with more details about the project, and to explore the possibility of a formal collaboration. This is a unique opportunity to contribute to a groundbreaking initiative that could have a significant impact on our understanding of history. It also comes with, shall we say, very generous compensation.
Please let me know if you're available to meet sometime next week. I am flexible and can adjust my schedule to accommodate your availability.
Sincerely,
Jillian Salvius
CEO, Salvius Foundation
Beatrice stared at the email, her mind racing, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions swirling within her. It was an intriguing offer, undeniably so, a potentially career-boosting opportunity that could propel her forward, opening doors she'd only dreamed of. Jillian Salvius was a powerful, influential figure, a woman who commanded respect, a woman who got things done. A collaboration with her could provide Beatrice with access to resources, funding, and a platform that could significantly enhance her career, allowing her to pursue her research with greater freedom and impact.
But she was also hesitant, deeply so. She remembered Ava's conversation with Lilith, the warning about Jillian's ruthlessness, her manipulative nature, her reputation for getting what she wanted, no matter the cost. And she couldn't shake the feeling of unease she'd felt during their brief interaction at the gala, the sense of… possessiveness… that Jillian had exuded, the way she'd looked at Ava, the way she'd seemed to… claim her.
She also couldn't ignore the fact that Jillian had shown a clear interest in Ava, in her art, in… her. Was this job offer genuine, a sincere appreciation of Beatrice's skills and experience, or was it a way for Jillian to get closer to Ava, to exert her influence, to… manipulate her? Was Beatrice being used as a pawn in some larger game, a game she didn't understand?
She felt torn, pulled in two directions, her ambition clashing with her apprehension, her desire for professional advancement conflicting with her loyalty to Ava, with her gut feeling that something wasn't right. The opportunity was tempting, alluring, a siren song promising success and recognition. But the potential risks were significant, the consequences of getting involved with Jillian Salvius potentially devastating.
She needed advice, someone to help her sort through her confused emotions, someone to offer a clear, objective perspective. She decided to call Mary, to see if her friend, with her pragmatic wisdom and her unwavering loyalty, could provide some clarity, some guidance, some much-needed support.
Meanwhile, Ava was experiencing a moment of triumph, a surge of excitement and validation that momentarily eclipsed the anxieties and uncertainties that had been plaguing her. She'd received a call from a small, independent art gallery in the El Raval district, "Galeria Nau," a space known for showcasing emerging artists, for promoting unconventional, cutting-edge work. They'd seen her work at the gala – the pieces she'd helped to install, the curated collection of local art, not her own work, which had been hidden away, unseen – and they were impressed. They'd somehow tracked her down, discovered her connection to the installation, and they wanted to feature her in an upcoming exhibition, a group show focusing on "Urban Expressions: Barcelona Through the Eyes of Emerging Artists."
It was a huge opportunity for Ava, a chance to showcase her work to a wider audience, to gain recognition for her talent, to establish herself as a serious artist. It was a validation of her passion, her dedication, her years of hard work, her unwavering belief in her own creative vision. It was a dream come true, a step forward in her career, a sign that she was on the right path.
She was ecstatic, her heart pounding with excitement, her mind buzzing with possibilities. She wanted to share the news with Beatrice, to celebrate with her, to tell her about the exhibition, to show her that she was making progress, that she was taking her life seriously. She imagined Beatrice's reaction, her smile, her words of encouragement, the pride she would feel in Ava's accomplishment.
But she hesitated, a familiar wave of doubt washing over her. Their relationship was still so fragile, so uncertain, so fraught with unspoken emotions. She didn't want to jinx it, to do anything that might jeopardize the tentative progress they'd made, to disrupt the delicate balance they'd achieved. She was afraid that sharing her success might somehow… threaten Beatrice, might make her feel inadequate, might reignite the old conflicts about their mismatched life goals.
She decided to call Lilith instead, to share her excitement with her best friend, to bask in the glow of her unwavering support, to receive the unconditional validation she craved.
"Lilith, you won't believe this!" she exclaimed, as soon as Lilith answered the phone, her voice bubbling with excitement, her words tumbling over each other. "I got a call from a gallery! A real gallery! Galeria Nau! They want to show my work! In an exhibition! A real exhibition! With other artists! And… and… I'm going to be famous!" She added the last part with a laugh, a mixture of self-deprecation and genuine excitement.
Lilith's whoop of joy echoed through the phone, her enthusiasm infectious, her support unwavering. "Ava, that's amazing! I'm so proud of you! I knew it! I knew you were talented! I knew you were going to make it! You're going to be the next Frida Kahlo! Or… the next… Ava Silva! That's even better!"
They talked for a while, Ava describing the gallery, the exhibition, the other artists involved, the potential impact on her career, the possibilities that were opening up before her. Lilith's enthusiasm was a balm to Ava's soul, a validation of her dreams, a reminder that she was on the right path.
But even in her moment of triumph, even in the midst of her excitement, she couldn't completely shake the uncertainty about Beatrice, about their relationship, about the future. The success felt incomplete, somehow, without Beatrice there to share it with, without her support, her encouragement, her… love.
The morning after their intimate night had brought a glimmer of hope, a spark of possibility, but it had also brought a new wave of uncertainty, a reminder that the path ahead was still far from clear, that the journey towards reconciliation, towards a future together, was still fraught with obstacles, with challenges, with… unknowns. They both had a lot to consider, a lot to process, and their decisions, their actions, would likely impact their future, their relationship, their… everything. The stakes were high, the pressure was on, and the outcome was… uncertain.
Chapter 8: Jealousy's Green Eyes
Chapter Text
Ava stared at her reflection, a critical eye assessing the stranger staring back. She was dressed for another date with JC, a sleek black dress – a different one from the borrowed one she'd worn to the gala, this one her own, a purchase from a small boutique in Gràcia – clinging to her curves, her hair styled in loose waves, a touch of makeup highlighting her eyes. She looked… good. Attractive. Dateable. But she felt… hollow. The reflection felt like a carefully constructed facade, a mask designed to hide the turmoil beneath.
The excitement of the gallery offer had faded, replaced by a familiar unease, a lingering anxiety about Beatrice. Their tentative truce, the fragile hope that had been rekindled during the blackout, felt precarious, threatened by the unspoken emotions that still simmered between them. And now, there was the added complication of JC, a distraction that was proving to be less effective than she'd hoped.
A knock on her door startled her. It was Beatrice.
"Hey," Beatrice said, her voice carefully neutral, her eyes avoiding Ava's gaze. "You… look nice." The compliment felt awkward, forced, a polite formality rather than a genuine expression of admiration.
"Thanks," Ava replied, feeling a blush creep up her cheeks. "Just… going out." She didn't specify with whom, but the implication was clear.
Beatrice nodded, her gaze flickering to Ava's dress, her hair, her makeup, taking in the details of her appearance. A flicker of… something… crossed her face. Pain? Regret? Jealousy? Ava couldn't quite decipher it.
"Have… fun," Beatrice said, the words sounding strained, hollow, a polite formality that masked a deeper, more complex emotion. She turned to leave, her movements stiff, controlled.
"Bea?" Ava said, her voice stopping Beatrice in her tracks.
Beatrice turned back, her eyes questioning, a flicker of hope in their depths.
"We… we still on for movie night on Sunday?" Ava asked, referring to a tentative plan they'd made during the blackout, a small step towards rebuilding their connection, a fragile attempt to reclaim a semblance of their former routine.
Beatrice hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. "I… I don't know, Ava. I have… a lot to think about. With… with the job offer." She'd finally told Ava about Jillian's proposition, a brief, awkward conversation the previous day.
Ava's heart sank. The job offer. Another complication, another obstacle, another reminder of the forces pulling them apart. "Right," she said, her voice flat, her disappointment evident. "Of course. The job. Forget I asked."
She turned away, dismissing Beatrice, retreating back into her room, the fragile hope that had been flickering within her extinguished. The encounter had only amplified her anxieties, confirming her fears that Beatrice was pulling away, that their tentative truce was crumbling, that their relationship was… beyond repair.
JC was waiting for her outside, leaning against his sleek, silver sports car – a vehicle that screamed "success" and "expensive taste" – a stark contrast to Ava's battered old scooter. He greeted her with a charming smile, a kiss on the cheek, a compliment on her appearance.
"You look stunning, Ava," he said, his eyes lingering on her, his voice filled with admiration. "Ready for a night on the town?"
Ava forced a smile, trying to muster some enthusiasm, trying to convince herself that this was what she wanted, that this was what she needed. A distraction. An escape. A… rebound.
They went to a trendy restaurant in the El Born district, a place with dim lighting, exposed brick walls, and a menu filled with fusion cuisine that Ava couldn't quite decipher. It was the kind of place JC frequented, a place where he seemed perfectly at ease, a place where Ava felt… out of place.
He ordered for them, without asking her preference, choosing a selection of dishes that sounded expensive and exotic. He talked about his work, his latest project, a high-rise luxury apartment building overlooking the city. He talked about his upcoming trip to Dubai, a business trip that also involved, he hinted, some pleasure.
Ava listened politely, interjecting occasionally, but her mind was elsewhere. She was thinking about Beatrice, about their awkward encounter before she left, about the movie night that might not happen, about the job offer that threatened to pull Beatrice further away. She was thinking about the blackout, about the candlelight, about the conversation they'd had, about the fragile hope that had been rekindled, a hope that now seemed to be fading.
She found herself comparing JC to Beatrice, a constant, involuntary comparison that highlighted the vast difference between them. JC was charming, handsome, successful, but he lacked… depth. He lacked the quiet intensity, the intellectual curiosity, the emotional intelligence that Beatrice possessed. He lacked the… spark, the connection, the… something that made Ava's heart ache for Beatrice.
The food arrived, beautifully presented, artfully arranged on the plates, but Ava had little appetite. She picked at her food, pushing it around on her plate, her stomach churning with a mixture of anxiety and… guilt. She felt like she was betraying Beatrice, even though they were no longer together, even though Beatrice had broken up with her. The lingering emotional attachment, the unresolved feelings, made it impossible for her to fully embrace this new something, this… distraction.
"Everything okay, Ava?" JC asked, noticing her lack of enthusiasm. "You seem… distant."
Ava forced a smile. "Just… tired," she said, a flimsy excuse, a lie that felt heavy on her tongue. "Long day."
JC reached across the table and took her hand, his touch warm, his fingers strong. "Let me take care of you," he said, his voice low, suggestive. "Let me… distract you."
His words, his touch, should have sparked desire, should have ignited a flame within her. But they didn't. They felt… empty. Hollow. Meaningless. She felt a disconnect, a physical and emotional chasm between them that she couldn't bridge.
After dinner, they went to a rooftop bar, a place with panoramic views of the city, a place filled with beautiful people, expensive drinks, and loud music. JC ordered them cocktails – a signature concoction that involved some exotic fruit and a hefty price tag – and led her to a secluded corner, overlooking the glittering cityscape.
He put his arm around her, pulling her close, his body pressing against hers. He kissed her, a passionate, demanding kiss that left her feeling… nothing. Just a vague sense of discomfort, a feeling of being… used.
Ava pulled away, gently but firmly. "I… I don't think I'm in the mood for this, JC," she said, her voice apologetic, but firm.
JC looked at her, surprised, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "What's wrong, Ava? You seemed… into it… before." He was referring to their previous hookup, the night after their first date, the night that had left Ava feeling empty and unfulfilled.
"I… I don't know," Ava said, her voice hesitant, unsure. "I just… I can't. Not tonight."
She couldn't explain it to him. She couldn't tell him that she was still in love with her ex-girlfriend, that she was still mourning the loss of their relationship, that she was still emotionally attached to Beatrice, that she couldn't simply… switch off her feelings, that she couldn't simply… move on.
JC sighed, his frustration evident. "Look, Ava," he said, his voice a little sharper now, "I like you. I think you're… interesting. Attractive. I think the feeling is mutual so what's the problem?."
Ava looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of guilt and… apprehension. She couldn't to pretend any more, so she decided to just be honest.
"I'm sorry, JC," she said, her voice sincere. "I… I'm just not… ready. For this. For… anything. I'm still… hung up on someone else."
JC nodded, his expression a mixture of disappointment and… irritation. "I see," he said, a hint of displeasure in his voice. "It's always the ex, isn't it?"
He finished his drink, signaled for the bill, and they left the bar, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. He drove her home, the sleek, silver sports car feeling like a cage, a symbol of the emotional distance between them.
He dropped her off outside her apartment, a polite, impersonal goodbye, a finality to their brief, unfulfilling encounter. Ava watched as he drove away, the taillights disappearing into the night, a sense of relief washing over her. She was glad it was over. She was glad she'd been honest. But she was also… sad. Sad that she couldn't move on, sad that she was still so emotionally attached to Beatrice, sad that her heart was still… broken.
She was about to find that things were about to get more complicated.
Beatrice, meanwhile, had spent the evening wrestling with her emotions, torn between her ambition and her loyalty, between her desire for professional advancement and her lingering feelings for Ava. She'd paced her room, replaying the conversation with Jillian Salvius in her head, analyzing every word, every gesture, every nuance, trying to decipher the woman's true motives.
She'd also replayed the brief, awkward encounter with Ava before Ava's date, the way Ava had looked, the way she'd avoided her gaze, the way she'd mentioned the movie night, a tentative olive branch that Beatrice had brushed aside. She'd felt a pang of guilt, a sharp, stinging sensation in her chest, a reminder of her own… coldness, her own… distance.
As she paced, she noticed movement outside. Looking to the street below, she saw Ava. And JC.
She'd seen Ava get out of JC's car, had seen them say goodbye. It should have made her feel… relieved. It should have confirmed her belief that Ava was moving on, that their relationship was truly over, that she, Beatrice, had made the right decision.
But it didn't.
Instead, she felt a surge of jealousy, a visceral, overwhelming emotion that consumed her, a green-eyed monster that clawed at her insides.
The jealousy intensified, fueled by her own insecurities, by her own lingering feelings for Ava, by her own… fear. Fear of losing Ava completely, fear of seeing her with someone else, fear of the future, fear of… being alone.
It was in this state of heightened emotional turmoil, fueled by jealousy and a desperate need for distraction, that Beatrice made a decision. An impulsive decision. A decision that she would later… question.
She sat down at her laptop, opened her email, and typed a reply to Jillian Salvius:
Subject: Re: Potential Collaboration - Confidential
Dear Ms. Salvius,
Thank you for your email and for your interest in my work. I am very intrigued by your offer and would be delighted to meet with you to discuss the project further.
I am available to meet next week, at your convenience. Please let me know what time works best for you.
Sincerely,
Beatrice
She hit "send" before she could change her mind, before she could allow her doubts, her anxieties, her… her better judgment… to prevail. It was done. She'd accepted the offer. She'd taken the leap. She'd entered into a… a pact… with a woman she barely knew, a woman who might be… dangerous.
The decision felt… reckless, impulsive, a desperate attempt to distract herself from her feelings for Ava, to assert her independence, to prove to herself that she could move on too, that she could be successful, that she could… control her own destiny.
But it also felt… wrong. A nagging sense of unease settled in her stomach, a premonition of… something… bad. She'd made a deal with the devil, and she knew it. But she couldn't take it back. She was committed. She was… trapped.
The jealousy, the intense, overwhelming emotion that had driven her to this impulsive decision, had blinded her, clouding her judgment, leading her down a path that might be… perilous. She'd let her emotions dictate her actions, and now, she had to face the consequences.
Chapter 9: Confessions and Confrontations
Chapter Text
The next morning, Ava woke up feeling… empty. The relief she'd felt after ending things with JC had dissipated, replaced by a familiar ache, a dull, persistent throbbing in her chest. It was the Beatrice-shaped hole in her life, a void that nothing seemed to fill. She'd tried distraction, she'd tried dating, she'd tried denial, but nothing worked. The truth was, she was still hopelessly, painfully in love with her ex-girlfriend.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the previous night. The awkward date, the forced conversation, the lack of connection, the overwhelming feeling of… wrongness. It had all confirmed what she already knew: she wasn't over Beatrice. Not even close.
She received a text from Lilith: “Brunch? My treat. Need to hear all about your disastrous date..”
Ava managed a weak smile. Lilith knew her too well. She dragged herself out of bed, the prospect of brunch and Lilith's blunt honesty the only things motivating her to face the day.
Beatrice, meanwhile, woke up with a knot of anxiety in her stomach. She'd barely slept, her mind racing, replaying her impulsive decision to accept Jillian's job offer. The excitement she'd initially felt had been replaced by a growing sense of dread, a premonition of… something… bad. She felt like she'd made a deal with the devil, a pact that could have devastating consequences.
She also couldn't shake the image of Ava getting out of JC's car. The jealousy she'd felt had morphed into something else… guilt. Guilt that she was still causing Ava's pain, guilt that she was making things worse, guilt that she was… failing her.
She received a text from Mary: “Lunch? My office. Need to dissect your decision-making process. And possibly stage an intervention.”
Beatrice sighed. She knew Mary was concerned, that she saw through Beatrice's carefully constructed facade, that she knew Beatrice was making a mistake.
Ava met Lilith at a small, cozy brunch spot in the Gràcia district, a place they frequented, a place filled with happy memories of shared meals and carefree conversations. Now, the familiar atmosphere felt tainted, a reminder of what Ava had lost.
"So," Lilith said, after they'd ordered their food – Ava had opted for a strong coffee and a croissant, her stomach too unsettled for anything more substantial – "spill. Tell me everything. How bad was it? Did he wear a fedora? Did he talk about his cryptocurrency investments? Did he mansplain art to you?"
Ava managed a weak smile. "No fedora. No crypto. He did, however, talk extensively about his luxury apartment building and his upcoming trip to Dubai. And he ordered for me. Without asking. As if I were incapable of choosing my own food."
Lilith rolled her eyes. "Classic. He sounds… delightful. A real catch. So, are you going to see him again?"
Ava shook her head, her expression resolute. "No. Absolutely not. I ended it. Last night. It was… a mistake. I'm not… ready. I'm still…"
"In love with Beatrice?" Lilith finished the sentence for her, her voice gentle, understanding.
Ava nodded, tears welling up in her eyes. "Hopelessly. Pathetically. Irrevocably."
Lilith reached across the table and took Ava's hand, her touch firm and reassuring. "It's okay, Ava. It's okay to still love her. It's okay to not be ready to move on. It's okay to… feel."
"But it's been weeks," Ava said, her voice choked with emotion. "I should be over it by now. I should be… moving on. I should be… happy. Or at least… pretending to be happy."
"There's no 'should' in grief, Ava," Lilith said, her voice firm but kind. "There's no timeline. There's no right or wrong way to feel. You're allowed to mourn the loss of your relationship. You're allowed to feel the pain. You're allowed to… miss her."
"But she broke up with me," Ava said, her voice a whisper, the words raw with pain. "She said… she said she was holding me back. That we were… incompatible. That… that love wasn't enough."
"And maybe she believed that," Lilith said. "Maybe she was trying to do what she thought was best. For both of you. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. That doesn't mean it wasn't a mistake. And it doesn't mean you have to give up."
"But what if she doesn't want me back?" Ava asked, her voice filled with fear, with vulnerability. "What if… what if it's too late?"
"Then you'll deal with it," Lilith said, her voice resolute. "You'll grieve. You'll heal. You'll move on. Eventually. But you won't know until you… talk to her. Really talk to her. Not about rent. Not about chores. Not about… other people. About your feelings. About your fears. About… your love."
"And what about Jillian Salvius?" Ava asked, changing the subject, a new wave of anxiety washing over her. "You said… you said she was bad news."
Lilith's expression darkened. "She is, Ava. I'm serious. Stay away from her. She's… dangerous. She's manipulative. She's… a predator. She preys on vulnerable people. And right now… you're vulnerable."
Ava nodded, a shiver running down her spine. She'd felt that unease herself, that sense of… something… off… about Jillian. She'd try to ignore it, to dismiss it as paranoia, but Lilith's warning confirmed her suspicions.
"I will," Ava said. "I promise. I'll… I'll keep my distance."
But even as she said the words, she knew it wouldn't be that easy. Jillian Salvius was persistent, powerful, and she had her sights set on… something. And Ava had a feeling that she, or Beatrice, or both of them, were somehow involved.
Beatrice met Mary at Mary's office, a sleek, modern space in a high-rise building overlooking the city. Mary was a therapist, specializing in relationship counseling, a profession that often felt ironic, given her seeming failure to help with Beatrice's romantic life. She decides she'll try a different approach this time.
"So," Mary said, after they'd settled into comfortable chairs in her office, a cup of herbal tea steaming between them, "tell me about this… job offer. And don't leave anything out. I want the good, the bad, and the… Jillian Salvius."
Beatrice recounted the details of the email, the description of the project, the offer of "generous compensation," the invitation to meet. She also expressed her reservations, her anxieties, her gut feeling that something wasn't right.
"I don't know, Mary," Beatrice said, her voice troubled. "It's… tempting. It's a great opportunity. It could… change my career. But… I don't trust her. I don't trust Jillian Salvius. And… I don't want to do anything that might… hurt Ava."
Mary listened patiently, her expression thoughtful, her eyes filled with concern. "You said you saw Ava with… someone… the night you accepted the offer. And that… that influenced your decision."
Beatrice nodded, her cheeks flushing with shame. "I was… jealous. I saw her get out of his car, and… I just… snapped. I needed to… distract myself. I needed to… prove something. To myself. To her. I don't know."
Mary leaned forward, her gaze intense. "Beatrice," she said, her voice firm but gentle, "you're running away. You're running away from your feelings. You're running away from Ava. You're running away from… yourself."
Beatrice looked down at her hands, her fingers twisting together. She knew Mary was right. She'd been running ever since the breakup, running from the pain, running from the guilt, running from the… love… that she still felt for Ava.
"I know," Beatrice said, her voice barely a whisper. "But I don't know how to… stop. I don't know how to… face her. I don't know how to… fix things."
"You don't have to fix everything, Bea," Mary said. "You just have to… start. Start by being honest. With yourself. With Ava. Start by… talking to her. Really talking to her. Not about chores. Not about rent. Not about… job offers. About your feelings. About your fears. About… your love."
"But what if it's too late?" Beatrice asked, her voice filled with fear, with vulnerability. "What if… what if I've ruined everything?"
"Then you'll deal with it," Mary said, her voice resolute. "You'll grieve. You'll heal. You'll move on. Eventually. But you won't know until you… try. And… Beatrice… be careful with Jillian Salvius. I don't like the sound of this. She's… powerful. And… she's not known for her… ethics."
Beatrice nodded, a sense of dread settling in her stomach. She knew Mary was right. She'd made a mistake. A big mistake. And now, she had to face the consequences.
That evening, back at the apartment, the tension between Ava and Beatrice was thicker than ever, a palpable presence that filled the air, making it difficult to breathe. They'd avoided each other all day, communicating only through strained silences and averted gazes, the unspoken emotions simmering beneath the surface.
Ava was in the living room, trying to read, but her mind kept drifting back to her conversation with Lilith, to the warning about Jillian Salvius, to the lingering pain of her breakup with Beatrice.
Beatrice was in the kitchen, preparing dinner – a simple salad, a solitary meal – her mind racing, replaying her conversation with Mary, her guilt about accepting Jillian's offer, her fear of what the future held.
The silence was broken by the sound of Ava's phone ringing. It was a call from an unknown number. Ava hesitated, then answered.
"Hello?"
"Ava Silva?" a woman's voice asked, a voice that was both familiar and… unsettling.
"Yes?"
"It's Jillian Salvius. We met at the gala. I was hoping we could… talk. About your art. About… your future."
Ava's heart sank. She'd been hoping to avoid Jillian, to heed Lilith's warning, but it seemed Jillian had other plans.
"I… I'm not sure this is a good time," Ava said, her voice hesitant, unsure.
"I understand," Jillian said, her voice smooth, persuasive. "But I believe this is an opportunity you won't want to miss. I'm very interested in your work, Ava. And I think I can… help you. In more ways than one."
The implication was clear. Jillian wasn't just interested in Ava's art. She was interested in… something more.
Ava felt a chill run down her spine. She knew she should end the call, should politely decline Jillian's offer, should… run. But something stopped her. Curiosity? Ambition? A desperate need for… something… to change?
"Okay," Ava said, her voice barely a whisper. "Okay. I'll… I'll listen."
Beatrice, who had been standing in the doorway, listening to Ava's side of the conversation, felt a surge of anger, a burning sensation in her chest. She couldn't hear Jillian's words, but she could sense the manipulation, the… threat… in Ava's tone, in her hesitant responses, in her… vulnerability.
She stormed into the living room, her eyes blazing with fury. "Who is that?" she demanded, her voice sharp, accusing. "Is that… her?"
Ava, startled by Beatrice's sudden appearance, quickly ended the call. "It's… it's none of your business, Beatrice," she said, her voice defensive, her own anger flaring.
"None of my business?" Beatrice repeated, her voice rising. "She's calling you , in our apartment, and it's none of my business? What is she offering you, Ava? Money? Fame? What?"
"It's about my art, Beatrice!" Ava shot back. "Something you clearly don't understand!"
"Oh, I understand perfectly, Ava!" Beatrice retorted. "I understand that you're being manipulated! I understand that you're letting your ambition, your… your need for validation, cloud your judgment! I understand that you're falling for her… her lies!"
"And what about you, Beatrice?" Ava countered, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. "What about your… job offer? Your… collaboration… with a woman who is clearly… dangerous? Are you going to tell me that's none of my business too?"
"It's different, Ava!" Beatrice said, her voice strained. "It's… it's about my career. It's about… my future."
"And what about our future, Beatrice?" Ava asked, her voice cracking with emotion, tears welling up in her eyes. "Was there ever even a we , to begin with? Or was I just a… a temporary distraction? A… a stepping stone?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ava!" Beatrice snapped. "You know that's not true! I loved you! I… I still…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, the words catching in her throat.
"You still… what, Beatrice?" Ava challenged, her voice filled with pain, with anger, with a desperate need for… something. "You still… love me? You still… want me? You still… care?"
Beatrice didn't answer. She couldn't. The words were too heavy, too loaded, too… dangerous.
"That's what I thought," Ava said, her voice a whisper, her tears flowing freely now. "You're so… cold, Beatrice. So… unfeeling. So… afraid. You're so afraid of being hurt, of being vulnerable, that you push everyone away. You build walls around yourself, and you… you shut everyone out. Including… me."
Beatrice flinched, Ava's words hitting her like a physical blow. She knew Ava was right. She was afraid. Afraid of being hurt, afraid of being vulnerable, afraid of… losing control. She'd built walls around her heart, protecting herself from pain, but in doing so, she'd also shut out love, she'd shut out Ava.
"And you, Ava," Beatrice said, her voice trembling, her own anger fueled by guilt, by shame, by a desperate need to… defend herself, "you're so… immature. So… irresponsible. So… reckless. You run away from your problems, you hide behind your art, you… you refuse to grow up!"
Ava laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. "Grow up? Is that what you call it, Beatrice? Conforming to your… your rigid standards? Becoming someone I'm not? Giving up my dreams? My passions? My… self?"
It was a raw, honest confrontation, a volcanic eruption of suppressed feelings, a brutal exchange of accusations and recriminations. They hurled words at each other like weapons, each word designed to inflict pain, to wound, to… destroy.
"I'm done, Beatrice," Ava said, her voice shaking with emotion, her tears streaming down her face. "I'm done with this… this charade. I'm done with the house rules. I'm done with the silence. I'm done with… you."
Beatrice stared at her, her own eyes filled with tears, her heart breaking. "And I'm done with you, too, Ava. I can't handle someone as immature as you."
The words hung in the air, heavy with finality, a devastating blow that shattered the fragile remnants of their relationship.
"I… I can't do this anymore," Ava whispered, her voice choked with sobs. "I can't… live like this. I need… I need to get out of here."
Beatrice didn't respond. She simply stood there, watching Ava, her own tears flowing freely, her body trembling with a mixture of grief, regret, and a profound sense of… loss.
The argument ended, not with a resolution, but with a devastating, heartbreaking surrender. The raw, honest confrontation had exposed the depth of their pain, the magnitude of their wounds, the seemingly insurmountable obstacles that stood between them. The emotional culmination of their weeks of struggle had left them both shattered, broken, defeated.
Chapter 10: The First Crack
Chapter Text
The apartment felt… hollow. The silence that followed the explosive argument was different from the previous silences. This wasn't the tense quiet of avoidance, or the awkward silence of unspoken feelings. This was the silence of devastation, the quiet aftermath of a storm that had ripped through their lives, leaving behind wreckage and debris.
Ava had retreated to her room, the door closed firmly, a physical barrier reflecting the emotional chasm that now separated them. She lay on her bed, curled up in a fetal position, her body shaking with silent sobs. The tears flowed freely, a release of the pent-up pain, frustration, and heartbreak that had been building for weeks. She felt… empty, drained, as if the argument had ripped out her insides, leaving her hollow and raw.
Beatrice remained in the living room, standing amidst the wreckage of their argument, the echoes of their harsh words still ringing in her ears. She felt numb, her emotions a tangled mess of guilt, regret, and a profound sense of loss. She'd said things she hadn't meant, hurtful things, cruel things, words that she couldn't take back. And she'd heard things, too, accusations that stung, truths that she couldn't deny.
She looked around the apartment, the space that had once been their sanctuary, their home, their haven. It now felt like a battlefield, a place of pain, a constant reminder of their failure. The framed photographs on the walls, the mismatched furniture, the small, personal touches that had once made the space feel warm and inviting – they all seemed to mock her, whispering reminders of what they'd lost.
She walked over to the window, staring out at the city lights, the glittering cityscape a blur through her tear-filled eyes. Barcelona, the city they'd fallen in love in, the city that had once held so much promise, now felt like a prison, a cage that trapped them in their misery.
She didn't know how long she stood there, lost in her thoughts, her emotions a swirling vortex of pain and regret. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator, a constant, low-level drone that seemed to amplify the silence, the emptiness.
Eventually, exhaustion set in, a bone-deep weariness that made her limbs feel heavy, her eyelids droop. She knew she needed to sleep, to escape the pain, even if just for a few hours. But she couldn't bring herself to go to her room, to face the emptiness of her bed, the absence of Ava's warmth beside her.
She sank onto the sofa, curling up on the cushions, the familiar scent of fabric softener a faint, bittersweet reminder of their shared life. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. Her mind raced, replaying the argument, dissecting every word, every gesture, every nuance. She saw Ava's face, her eyes filled with tears, her voice trembling with anger and hurt. She heard her own words, harsh and cruel, echoing in her memory.
She drifted in and out of a restless sleep, haunted by nightmares, fragments of dreams filled with images of Ava, of their past, of their broken relationship. She woke up repeatedly, her heart pounding, her body covered in a cold sweat, the reality of their situation crashing down on her with renewed force.
The next morning, Ava woke up feeling… numb. The tears had dried, leaving her eyes puffy and sore, her head throbbing with a dull ache. She felt emotionally drained, as if the argument had sucked the life out of her, leaving her hollow and empty.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the familiar cracks and patterns a stark contrast to the chaos within her. She didn't want to get up, didn't want to face the day, didn't want to face… Beatrice. But she knew she couldn't stay in her room forever. She had to… function. She had to… survive.
She dragged herself out of bed, her movements slow and deliberate, her body feeling heavy and leaden. She went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, trying to wash away the remnants of the previous night, trying to erase the pain, the hurt, the… devastation.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her face pale and drawn. She looked… lost. Broken. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
She made coffee, the familiar ritual a small comfort in the midst of the emotional turmoil. The aroma filled the kitchen, a faint, bittersweet reminder of their shared mornings, of the life they'd once had.
She sat down at the kitchen table, sipping her coffee, staring out the window, her mind blank, her emotions numb. She felt… detached, as if she were watching her life unfold from a distance, a spectator in her own tragedy.
Beatrice woke up a little later, feeling equally drained, equally numb. She'd barely slept, her mind replaying the argument, her guilt and regret a heavy weight on her chest. She got up, her body stiff and sore from sleeping on the sofa, her head throbbing with a dull ache.
She went to the kitchen, expecting to find it empty, expecting Ava to be avoiding her, as usual. But Ava was there, sitting at the table, sipping coffee, her gaze fixed on something outside the window.
Beatrice hesitated, unsure of what to do, what to say. The awkwardness was palpable, a thick, suffocating blanket that hung in the air between them.
"Morning," she said, her voice tentative, her tone carefully neutral.
Ava didn't respond, didn't even look at her. She simply continued to stare out the window, her body rigid, her expression unreadable.
Beatrice poured herself a cup of coffee, the silence stretching, becoming almost unbearable. She sat down at the table, a careful distance from Ava, her heart pounding in her chest.
"Ava," she began, her voice hesitant, unsure, "about last night…"
Ava finally turned to look at her, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her expression a mixture of anger and… sadness.
"There's nothing to talk about, Beatrice," she said, her voice cold, flat, devoid of emotion. "We said what we needed to say. It's… over."
Beatrice flinched, Ava's words hitting her like a physical blow. She knew that things were bad, that they'd reached a breaking point, but hearing Ava say it, hearing her declare their relationship "over," was a different level of pain.
"Ava, please," Beatrice said, her voice pleading, desperate. "I… I didn't mean…"
"Yes, you did," Ava interrupted, her voice sharp, cutting. "You meant every word. And I meant what I said too. I can't… I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this. I need… space. I need… to get away from you."
Beatrice felt a wave of panic wash over her. The thought of Ava leaving, of being completely alone, was terrifying.
"Ava, don't," she said, her voice trembling. "Please. Don't… don't leave."
Ava looked at her, her eyes filled with a mixture of pain and… pity. "I'm not leaving, Beatrice," she said, her voice softer now, a hint of sadness returning to her tone. "Not yet. But I need… time. I need… space. I need… to figure things out. And I can't do that… here. With you."
Beatrice nodded, understanding dawning on her. Ava wasn't leaving permanently, not yet, but she was… withdrawing. She was creating distance, emotional distance, a space where she could heal, where she could think, where she could… decide their future.
"I understand," Beatrice said, her voice barely a whisper, her heart aching. "I… I'll give you space."
The silence returned, but it was a different kind of silence now. It wasn't the silence of anger, or the silence of avoidance. It was the silence of… resignation. Of acceptance. Of… grief.
In a surprising turn of events. Jillian called Beatrice that morning.
"Beatrice," Jillian's voice was smooth, confident, "I trust you've had time to consider my offer?"
"Yes," Beatrice replied, her voice surprisingly steady, despite the turmoil within her. "I have."
"And?" Jillian prompted, a hint of impatience in her tone.
"And… I've decided to accept," Beatrice said, the words feeling like a betrayal, a surrender, a step into the unknown. "I'm very interested in the project. And… I believe I can be of… assistance."
"Excellent," Jillian said, her voice filled with satisfaction. "I knew you were the right person for this. I have a good feeling about you, Beatrice. You're… different. You're… special."
Beatrice felt a chill run down her spine, a familiar unease settling in her stomach. But she pushed it aside, focusing on the task ahead, on the distraction that Jillian's offer provided.
"When would you like me to start?" Beatrice asked, her voice professional, detached.
"Immediately," Jillian said. "I have a car waiting for you. It should be there in… ten minutes. We have a lot to discuss."
Beatrice hung up the phone, her mind racing. She had to get ready, had to prepare herself, had to… face the consequences of her decision. She also had to… tell Ava. Or… not tell her. She wasn't sure.
She went to her room, quickly changing into a professional outfit – a simple black dress, a blazer, a pair of sensible shoes. She looked in the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, a stranger in familiar clothes. She felt a sense of… detachment, as if she were watching someone else, a character in a play, a woman making a decision that would change her life forever.
She walked back into the living room, where Ava was still sitting at the table, staring out the window.
"I… I have to go," Beatrice said, her voice hesitant, unsure. "I… I have a meeting. With… Jillian Salvius."
Ava turned to look at her, her expression unreadable. She simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement that conveyed… nothing. No anger. No sadness. No… anything.
"Okay," she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Have a… good meeting."
Beatrice hesitated, wanting to say something more, wanting to… apologize, to explain, to… connect. But she couldn't. The words wouldn't come. The emotional chasm between them was too wide, too deep.
She turned and left the apartment, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing in the empty space, a finality that felt both terrifying and… liberating.
The next few days were a blur. Beatrice immersed herself in her work for Jillian, spending long hours at the Salvius Foundation headquarters, a sleek, modern building in the heart of the city. The work was challenging, demanding, requiring all of her focus, all of her energy, all of her… intellect.
The project, as Jillian had described, was highly confidential, shrouded in secrecy. It involved researching a specific historical period, a specific… event… that Jillian was intensely interested in. Beatrice wasn't given the full picture, only fragments of information, pieces of a puzzle that she was tasked with assembling.
She worked in a small, isolated office, a sterile, impersonal space with no windows, no distractions, only the hum of the computer and the weight of the task ahead. She spent hours poring over ancient texts, deciphering cryptic documents, searching for clues, for connections, for… answers.
The work was… distracting. It provided a temporary escape from the emotional turmoil of her personal life, a refuge from the pain, the guilt, the regret that consumed her. It allowed her to focus on something outside of herself, something… objective, something… tangible.
But it was also… unsettling. The more she learned, the more she realized that Jillian's project was… unusual. The historical event she was researching was shrouded in mystery, surrounded by rumors and legends, tales of… something… supernatural. Something… dangerous.
She would soon find out, exactly how dangerous.
She started to feel uneasy, a growing sense of dread that she couldn't shake. She felt like she was being used, manipulated, drawn into something that she didn't understand, something that could have… devastating consequences.
But she pushed those feelings aside, focusing on the work, on the distraction, on the… escape… that it provided. She told herself that she was doing this for her career, for her future, for… herself. But deep down, she knew that she was also doing it to… avoid Ava. To avoid facing the reality of their broken relationship, to avoid the pain, the guilt, the… love… that she still felt.
Back at the apartment.
Ava, meanwhile, was struggling to cope with the aftermath of the argument, with Beatrice's decision to work for Jillian, with the growing sense of… isolation… that consumed her. She felt lost, adrift, as if she were floating in a sea of uncertainty, with no anchor, no direction, no… hope.
She spent her days painting, losing herself in her art, trying to channel her emotions onto the canvas, trying to find a way to express the pain, the confusion, the… despair… that she felt. But the paintings were dark, turbulent, filled with chaotic energy, a reflection of her inner turmoil.
She avoided Beatrice as much as possible, their interactions limited to strained silences and averted gazes. The apartment felt like a minefield, every encounter fraught with tension, with the potential for another explosion.
But one evening, a few days after Beatrice had started working for Jillian, Ava found herself alone in the apartment. Beatrice had called, a brief, awkward conversation, to say that she would be working late, that she wouldn't be home until… sometime… the next morning.
Ava had hung up the phone, feeling a familiar pang of loneliness, a deep, aching void where Beatrice used to be. She wandered around the apartment, restless, unable to settle, her mind racing, her emotions a tangled mess.
She found herself in the kitchen, staring at the refrigerator, at the magnetic whiteboard, the symbol of their failed attempt to create order, to maintain a semblance of civility. She saw the list of chores, the childish additions they'd made, the… memories… that it evoked.
She reached for a marker – a blue one, this time – and added another item to the list, under Beatrice's column: "Come home."
It was a small gesture, a simple plea, a silent expression of her longing, her loneliness, her… love.
She then went and stood over the sink. Looking at all the dirty dishes.
She turned on the faucet. And began to wash them.
A few hours later, Beatrice returned to the apartment, exhausted, drained, her mind still reeling from the day's work, from the unsettling discoveries she'd made, from the growing sense of unease that consumed her.
She expected to find the apartment empty, to find Ava asleep in her room, to find the usual signs of their… separation.
But as she walked into the living room, she saw something that surprised her.
Ava was sitting on the sofa, sketching in her notebook, a soft glow emanating from a table lamp. The apartment was… clean. Tidy. The dishes were done, the counters wiped, the living room… organized. It wasn't sterile, not like Beatrice's attempts at order, but it was… peaceful. Welcoming.
Ava looked up, startled by Beatrice's presence, her eyes widening slightly. Her expression was… different. Softer. More vulnerable. Less… guarded.
"Hey," Ava said, her voice hesitant, unsure. "You're… home."
"Yeah," Beatrice replied, her voice equally hesitant, her gaze taking in the scene before her, the clean apartment, the soft lighting, Ava's… presence. "I… I didn't expect…"
"I know," Ava said, a small smile playing on her lips. "I… I just… felt like… cleaning. And I…." She gestured towards the refrigerator, towards the whiteboard.
Beatrice walked over to the refrigerator, her heart pounding in her chest. She saw Ava's addition to the list of chores under her name: "Come home." Beatrice felt a wave of emotion wash over her, a mixture of guilt, regret, longing, and… hope. She reached for a marker – and added another item to the list, under Ava's column, a single word: "Stay." Then A single tear escaped, and she began to cry.
Ava got up from the sofa and walked over to her, her movements slow and deliberate. She reached out and took Beatrice's hand, her touch gentle, tentative.
"Bea," she said softly, her voice filled with concern, with… compassion. "What's wrong?"
Beatrice shook her head, unable to speak, the tears flowing freely now.
Ava pulled her close, wrapping her arms around her, holding her tight. Beatrice buried her face in Ava's shoulder, her body shaking with sobs.
They stood there for a long time, holding each other, the silence filled only with the sound of Beatrice's crying, with the unspoken emotions that flowed between them.
Finally, Beatrice's sobs subsided, her body calming, her breathing returning to normal. She pulled away slightly, looking up at Ava, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen, her face streaked with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse, her gaze filled with shame, with regret. "I'm so sorry, Ava. For… everything. For the things I said. For the way I've been. For… hurting you."
Ava cupped Beatrice's face in her hands, her thumbs wiping away the tears. "I know, Bea," she said softly. "I know. And… I'm sorry too. For… for my part. For… for being difficult. For… for not understanding."
They looked at each other, their eyes searching, questioning, a tentative connection re-established, a fragile bridge across the chasm that had separated them.
"I… I don't want to lose you, Ava," Beatrice said, her voice trembling, her heart aching. "I… I can't… lose you."
"You won't," Ava said, her voice firm, resolute. "You won't lose me. I'm… I'm still here. And… I still…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence, the words too heavy, too loaded.
But Beatrice understood. She saw it in Ava's eyes, in her touch, in her… presence. The love was still there, buried beneath the pain, the anger, the… hurt. But it was there.
"Me too, my love. Me too," was all Beatrice could say.
They decided to watch a movie. Something to ground them.
It was a small step, a tentative beginning, a fragile truce. But it was… something. It was a start. The argument had been devastating, the aftermath painful, but it had also… cleared the air. It had forced them to confront their feelings, to acknowledge their pain, to… apologize. And in the vulnerability of the aftermath, in the shared understanding of their mistakes, a new possibility had emerged. A hint of hope, a glimmer of reconciliation, a… chance. The future was still uncertain, the path ahead still unclear, but for the first time in a long time, they were facing it… together.
Chapter 11: Hesitant Steps, Shared Breakfast
Chapter Text
The morning light filtered through the gap in Ava's curtains, a pale, hesitant illumination that mirrored the tentative mood in the apartment. The silence wasn't the heavy, oppressive silence of the previous days, but it wasn't exactly comfortable either. It was a silence filled with unspoken words, with the echoes of apologies and shared vulnerability, with the fragile hope of a new beginning.
Ava lay in bed, listening for any sign of Beatrice, her body tense, her senses on high alert. She felt… raw, exposed, like a newly hatched bird, vulnerable and uncertain. The argument, the tears, the shared admissions of longing – it had all been a cathartic release, a necessary explosion of pent-up emotions. But it had also left her feeling… depleted, unsure of what came next.
She heard the soft padding of Beatrice's feet in the hallway, the familiar creak of the floorboard outside her door – the sound that had once been a source of annoyance, then a symbol of their separation, now… a tentative sign of life, of movement, of… possibility.
Ava took a deep breath and got out of bed. She needed to face the day, to face Beatrice, to… try. She pulled on a pair of sweatpants – clean ones, this time – and an oversized t-shirt, a small act of self-care, a conscious effort to break free from the patterns of the past.
She walked into the kitchen, her heart pounding in her chest, her palms slightly sweaty. Beatrice was already there, standing at the stove, her back to Ava. The aroma of… something… filled the air, a scent that was both familiar and… unexpected. It wasn't coffee. It was… pancakes.
Ava paused in the doorway, her eyes taking in the scene. Beatrice, in her soft grey pajamas and worn slippers, humming softly to herself as she flipped pancakes on the stovetop. The kitchen, usually a sterile, battle-scarred zone, felt… different. Warmer. More… inviting.
"Morning," Ava said, her voice hesitant, unsure, her throat a little tight.
Beatrice turned, a slight startle in her eyes, a spatula in her hand. Her expression was… guarded, but there was a softness there, a vulnerability that Ava hadn't seen in weeks.
"Morning," Beatrice replied, her voice equally hesitant, her gaze meeting Ava's, then quickly darting away. "I… I made pancakes. I hope… I hope that's okay."
Ava's heart did a little flip. Pancakes. It was a small gesture, a simple act, but it was loaded with meaning. Pancakes had been their thing, a Sunday morning ritual, a symbol of their shared comfort, their easy intimacy. It was a callback to happier times, a silent offering of… peace.
"Pancakes?" Ava said, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's… that's perfect. Thank you."
They stood there for a moment, the awkwardness palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions. But it was a different kind of awkwardness than before. It wasn't the cold, distant awkwardness of avoidance, but the hesitant, uncertain awkwardness of two people trying to find their way back to each other, navigating a new, unfamiliar terrain.
Beatrice gestured towards the table, where two plates were already set, along with a small bowl of fruit, a jar of honey, and a pitcher of orange juice. "I… I wasn't sure what you'd want… so I just… made a bit of everything."
Ava sat down at the table, her gaze fixed on the pancakes, golden brown and perfectly round, a stark contrast to the messy, emotionally charged paintings that filled her studio. "This looks… amazing, Bea. Thank you."
Beatrice joined her at the table, a careful distance between them, a physical manifestation of the emotional space they were still trying to navigate. They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of their forks against their plates, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the distant sounds of the city awakening outside.
It was… awkward. Incredibly awkward. But it was also… nice. A shared meal, a tentative attempt at normalcy, a small step towards… something.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence, her voice a little too bright, a forced attempt at casual conversation, "how… how's… work? With… Jillian?" She stumbled over Jillian's name, the word leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
Beatrice hesitated, her gaze flickering to Ava's face, then quickly darting away. "It's… fine. Challenging. I can't.. say much. it's... highly confidential." She didn't elaborate, her voice carefully neutral, her expression guarded.
Ava nodded, feeling a pang of… something. Disappointment? Resentment? Jealousy? She wasn't sure. She wanted to ask more, to probe, to understand what Beatrice was working on, what Jillian wanted from her. But she didn't. She didn't want to push, to risk shattering the fragile truce they'd established.
"And… and you?" Beatrice asked, her voice hesitant, her gaze meeting Ava's for a brief moment. "How… how are you? After… last night?"
Ava took a deep breath. "I'm… okay," she said, her voice a little shaky. "Tired. But… okay. Better. Than… I was."
Beatrice nodded, her expression softening. "Me too," she said quietly. "Me too."
The silence returned, but it was a different kind of silence now. It wasn't the oppressive silence of unspoken anger, or the awkward silence of forced politeness. It was a silence filled with… understanding. With… empathy. With… hope.
"Bea," Ava said, her voice hesitant, her gaze fixed on her plate, her fingers tracing the pattern on the tablecloth. "About the… apartment. I've been… thinking."
Beatrice looked up, her eyes questioning, a flicker of apprehension in their depths.
"I know… I know it holds a lot of… baggage," Ava continued, her voice a little stronger now. "A lot of… memories. Bad memories. And… I know I said… I said I wanted to leave. To… find a new place."
Beatrice nodded, her expression unreadable.
"But… I don't really want to leave," Ava said, her voice firm, resolute, her gaze meeting Beatrice's. "I… I like it here. I like… this apartment. I like… this neighborhood. I like… being close to… to everything. And… I think… maybe… we could… make it work. Here. Together. If… if we tried. If… if we… redecorated. Made it… ours. Again."
Beatrice's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. She hadn't expected that. She'd expected Ava to want to escape, to run away from the memories, from the pain, from… her.
"Redecorate?" Beatrice repeated, her voice questioning, unsure.
Ava nodded. "Yeah. A fresh start. New paint. New furniture. New… everything. We could… make it a new space. A space that reflects… us. Now. Not… who we were. But… who we… could be."
Beatrice considered this, her mind racing. The idea was… appealing. A fresh start, in a familiar space. A way to reclaim their home, to erase the ghosts of the past, to create a new future. But it was also… daunting. A big undertaking, a physical and emotional challenge.
"I… I don't know, Ava," she said, her voice hesitant. "It's… a lot. To… think about."
"I know," Ava said, her voice gentle, understanding. "But… we don't have to decide now. We can… think about it.. talk about it.. figure it out."
Beatrice reached across the table and took Ava's hand, her touch tentative, hesitant, but… real. Her fingers intertwined with Ava's, a small, physical connection that sent a jolt of warmth through Ava's body.
"Thank you, Ava," Beatrice said, her voice soft, her eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and… something else. Hope? Affection? Love? "For… for understanding. For… being willing to… try."
Ava squeezed Beatrice's hand, a silent acknowledgment of their shared vulnerability, their shared desire for… something… more.
Later that morning, as Ava was cleaning up the kitchen, her phone rang. It was Lilith.
"Hey," Ava said, her voice cautious, unsure of what to expect.
"So," Lilith said, her voice brimming with her usual sarcasm, "how's life in the post-apocalyptic wasteland of your relationship? Have you two managed to avoid killing each other yet? Or should I send in the National Guard?"
Ava managed a small laugh. "We're… okay," she said. "Better. We… talked. We… apologized. We… made pancakes."
Lilith was silent for a moment, a rare occurrence. "Pancakes?" she finally said, her voice skeptical. "As in… actual pancakes? Not… a metaphor for… something else?"
"Actual pancakes," Ava confirmed. "And… we might… redecorate the apartment. Together."
Lilith let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned. Maybe there's hope for you two yet. But… don't get your hopes up too high, Ava. One breakfast and a can of paint don't erase weeks of drama. And… what about… the Ice Queen's new best friend? Jillian?"
Ava's mood dampened, the mention of Jillian Salvius casting a shadow over her tentative optimism. "I don't know," she said. "Beatrice is… working for her. She says it's… a great opportunity. But… I don't trust her, Lilith. I don't trust Jillian. I have a… bad feeling."
"You should," Lilith said, her voice firm, serious. "Trust your gut, Ava. And… be careful. Both of you. This whole thing smells… fishy. Like… a week-old tuna casserole left out in the sun. And I don't want to see you two get… burned."
"I know," Ava said. "I will. We will. We're… trying to be careful."
"Good," Lilith said. "Because I swear, Ava, if that woman hurts you, or Beatrice, I will personally… unleash the hounds of hell upon her. And trust me, you don't want to see me angry."
Ava managed a small smile, grateful for Lilith's unwavering support, for her fierce loyalty, for her… slightly terrifying threats.
"Thanks, Lilith," she said. "I appreciate it. I… I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'd probably be living in a cardboard box, eating ramen noodles, and talking to pigeons," Lilith said, her voice dry, but her affection evident. "So… you're welcome."
After hanging up with Lilith, Ava felt a renewed sense of determination. She would be cautious, she would be vigilant, she would protect herself and Beatrice from whatever threat Jillian Salvius posed. But she would also… try. She would try to rebuild her relationship with Beatrice, to create a new future, to… reclaim their love.
She went to her studio, the small, cluttered space that was her sanctuary, her refuge, her creative haven. She looked at the paintings that lined the walls, the abstract expressions of her inner turmoil, the visual representations of her pain, her anger, her… hope.
She picked up a brush, dipped it in a vibrant shade of honey brown – a color that reminded her of Beatrice's eyes – and began to paint. She didn't have a plan, a specific image in mind. She simply let her emotions guide her, letting the color flow onto the canvas, creating shapes and patterns, expressing the feelings that words couldn't capture.
It was a new beginning, a fresh start, a blank canvas waiting to be filled with… something… beautiful.
Meanwhile, Beatrice was preparing to meet with Jillian, she opened her laptop, the screen illuminating her face with a pale, cold glow. She opened her email, her inbox filled with messages, most of them junk, but one stood out. It was from Jillian Salvius.
Subject: Project Update - Urgent
Dear Beatrice,
I trust you are settling in well. I have some new information regarding our project, some… developments… that require your immediate attention.
I've attached a document for your review. Please read it carefully. It contains crucial details about the… artifact… we are seeking. And about its… connection… to Ms. Silva's family history.
I look forward to discussing this with you further at our meeting on Monday.
Sincerely,
Jillian Salvius
Beatrice felt a chill run down her spine, a prickle of unease crawling across her skin. The mention of Ava's family history, the implication that Ava was somehow connected to Jillian's project, filled her with dread.
She hesitated, her finger hovering over the attachment, her mind racing. Should she open it? Should she delve deeper into this… rabbit hole? Or should she… run?
Curiosity, and a growing sense of protectiveness towards Ava, won out. She clicked on the attachment, the document opening on her screen.
It was a dense, academic text, filled with historical references, obscure terminology, and… disturbing imagery. There were diagrams of ancient symbols, descriptions of rituals, and… photographs. Photographs of artifacts, of locations, of… people.
As Beatrice scrolled through the document, her eyes scanning the text, her heart pounding in her chest, she saw a photograph that made her blood run cold. It was a picture of a necklace, a silver pendant in the shape of a… halo… a halo with with distinctly familiar markings.
It was Ava's necklace. The one she'd inherited from her grandmother, the one she only wore on special occasions or events, the one she'd been wearing at the gala.
Beatrice felt a wave of nausea wash over her, her stomach churning, her hands trembling. It couldn't be. It couldn't be.
But it was.
The document described the necklace as a key, a crucial component of the ritual Jillian was trying to recreate, a source of… power. And it was tied to Ava's lineage.
Beatrice closed the laptop, her mind reeling, her body shaking with fear and… rage. Jillian was using her. She was using Ava. She was… endangering them both.
She needed to protect Ava. She needed to stop Jillian. She needed to… fight back.
But first, she needed to… think. She needed a plan. She needed… help.
She opened her email again, this time composing a new message, a message to Mary, a message that would set in motion a chain of events that would change everything.
Subject: Urgent - Need your help
Mary,
I've made a terrible mistake. I've gotten myself involved in something… dangerous. Something that involves Ava. I need your help. I need your advice. And I need it… now.
I'll explain everything when I see you. But please… be careful. And don't trust Jillian Salvius.
Beatrice
She hit "send," a sense of urgency, of desperation, filling her. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, a game with potentially devastating consequences. But she had no choice. She had to protect Ava. She had to… save her. Even if it meant risking… everything. She quickly shut her laptop, and grabbed her phone to reply to Jillian.
She decided that she still would be going to the meeting. But this time, with some information, and a clearer head.
She just hoped she wasn't too late.
Chapter 12: Paint and Promises
Chapter Text
The Saturday morning sun streamed through the windows of the apartment, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, a stark contrast to the still-fragile atmosphere between Ava and Beatrice. They had agreed, tentatively, to redecorate, to transform the apartment from a battleground of unspoken resentments into a shared sanctuary, a fresh start. But the agreement was just the first step; the actual process loomed before them, a daunting task filled with potential pitfalls and, perhaps, the promise of healing.
"So," Ava said, breaking the silence that had settled over their breakfast of leftover pancakes – a silent acknowledgment of their shared attempt at normalcy – "are we actually doing this? Operation: Repaint the Pain Away?" She attempted a playful tone, but her voice wavered slightly, betraying her underlying nervousness.
Beatrice looked up from her coffee, a small smile playing on her lips. "I believe that's the plan. Unless you've changed your mind and decided to embrace the… 'shabby chic' aesthetic of emotional wreckage?"
Ava laughed, a genuine laugh this time, the sound a little lighter, a little freer than it had been in weeks. "No, I think… I think I'm ready for a change. A… a colorful change." She emphasized the word "colorful," a subtle hint at the impending battle of aesthetics she knew was coming.
Beatrice sighed, a theatrical sigh that was both amused and resigned. "I anticipated this. I have prepared myself for… an onslaught of vibrant hues. Just… promise me we won't end up with a living room that looks like a unicorn exploded."
Ava grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "No promises. But… I'm open to… compromise. Maybe. As long as there's some color. Somewhere. Please?"
The trip to the home improvement store, "Brico Depot," a sprawling warehouse filled with tools, hardware, and endless rows of paint samples, was an experience in itself. It was like entering a different world, a world of practicalities, of tangible solutions, a world far removed from the emotional complexities of their relationship.
Ava gravitated towards the brightest, boldest colors – fiery reds, electric blues, vibrant yellows, colors that screamed life, energy, passion. She envisioned a living room that was a reflection of her artistic soul, a vibrant, dynamic space that would inspire creativity and spark joy.
Beatrice, on the other hand, lingered in the section of muted tones – soft greys, calming blues, gentle greens, colors that evoked a sense of serenity, of peace, of… order. She imagined a living room that was a sanctuary, a calming oasis, a space where she could relax, recharge, and escape the chaos of the outside world.
The clash of styles was immediate, and inevitable.
"Ava, that red looks like a crime scene," Beatrice said, her voice a mixture of horror and amusement, gesturing towards a particularly intense shade of crimson that Ava was holding up to the light.
"It's called 'Passionate Poppy'," Ava retorted, defending her choice. "It's… vibrant. Energetic. It's… us."
Beatrice raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. "Us? I don't recall us ever being described as… 'passionate poppies'. More like… 'reserved researchers' and 'messy artists'."
"See? Opposites attract!" Ava said, grinning. "It'll be… a dynamic contrast. A… bold statement."
"It'll be a headache," Beatrice muttered, but there was a hint of amusement in her voice.
They spent the next hour wandering through the aisles, debating colors, textures, and finishes, their conversation a mix of playful banter and serious negotiation. They clashed, they compromised, they argued, they laughed. It was a microcosm of their relationship, a reflection of their differences, but also of their willingness to… try.
They eventually settled on a compromise – a base of a soft, warm grey, a color Beatrice approved of, with accent walls of a deep, muted teal, a color that Ava found surprisingly… calming. They also chose a few brighter accent colors – a splash of yellow, a touch of orange, a hint of purple – for pillows, throws, and other decorative elements, a way to incorporate Ava's love of vibrancy without overwhelming the space.
They bought brushes, rollers, drop cloths, painter's tape, and all the other necessary supplies, their shopping cart overflowing with the tools of their… transformation. It felt… hopeful. Like they were building something new, something together, something that could potentially erase the scars of the past and create a brighter future.
Back at the apartment, they cleared the living room, moving furniture, covering the floor with drop cloths, preparing the space for its metamorphosis. It was a physical act, a tangible representation of the emotional work they were undertaking, a way to clear out the old and make way for the new.
They put on old clothes – Ava in her paint-splattered overalls, Beatrice in a worn-out t-shirt and leggings, a rare glimpse of her in casual attire – and turned on some music, a playlist they'd created together years ago, a mix of their favorite songs, a soundtrack to their shared history.
They started painting, working in silence at first, the only sound the rhythmic swish of their brushes against the walls, the soft strains of the music, the occasional sigh or grunt of effort. It was… meditative, almost therapeutic, the physical act of painting a welcome distraction from the emotional complexities of their situation.
Ava, as expected, was messy, getting paint on her clothes, her hair, even her face. She attacked the walls with a kind of joyful abandon, her movements fluid and energetic, her brushstrokes bold and expressive.
Beatrice, on the other hand, was meticulous, precise, her movements careful and deliberate, her brushstrokes even and controlled. She focused on the details, ensuring that every edge was perfect, every corner clean, every surface smooth.
They worked on opposite walls, their styles contrasting, their approaches different, but their goal the same – to transform the space, to create something new, something… shared.
As they painted, the silence gradually gave way to conversation, hesitant at first, then more relaxed, more natural. They talked about the colors, about the process, about their plans for the room. They talked about their work, about their friends, about… everything except the elephant in the room – their relationship.
But the unspoken emotions were still there, lingering beneath the surface, a constant undercurrent of tension, of uncertainty, of… hope.
At one point, Ava, reaching for a high corner, lost her balance and stumbled, her paint-covered hand landing on Beatrice's arm, leaving a streak of teal across her skin.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Ava exclaimed, her eyes wide with alarm, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
Beatrice looked down at her arm, at the streak of paint, and then up at Ava, her expression unreadable. For a moment, the tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken emotions.
Then, Beatrice smiled. A genuine smile, a smile that reached her eyes, a smile that made Ava's heart skip a beat.
"It's… fine," she said, her voice soft, a hint of amusement in her tone. "It's just… paint."
She reached for a rag, intending to wipe it off, but Ava stopped her.
"No, wait," Ava said, her voice hesitant, her gaze fixed on Beatrice's arm. "It… it looks kind of… cool."
She reached out and touched the paint, her fingers tracing the streak of teal, her touch gentle, tentative. Her fingers brushed against Beatrice's skin, a light, accidental contact, but it sent a jolt of electricity through both of them.
They froze, their eyes locking, their bodies close, the air between them charged with… something. Desire? Longing? Hope? It was a mixture of all three, a potent cocktail of emotions that left them both breathless.
It was a moment of intense intimacy, a reminder of the connection that still existed between them, a spark of the passion that had once burned so brightly.
But then, Beatrice pulled away, her cheeks flushed, her eyes averted. "We… we should… get back to work," she said, her voice a little unsteady, her composure momentarily disrupted.
Ava nodded, feeling a mixture of disappointment and… relief. The moment had been… intense, overwhelming, a reminder of the powerful attraction that still existed between them, but also of the fear, the uncertainty, the… baggage… that still stood in their way.
They returned to painting, the silence returning, but it was a different kind of silence now. It was a silence filled with unspoken desires, with lingering feelings, with a heightened awareness of each other, with the knowledge that the spark was still there, waiting to be rekindled.
Later, as they were cleaning up, exhausted but satisfied with their progress, Ava stumbled upon a box tucked away in a corner, hidden behind a stack of drop cloths. It was an old, wooden box, its surface worn and scratched, its hinges rusty. She didn't recognize it.
"What's this?" she asked, turning to Beatrice, her curiosity piqued.
Beatrice looked up, her expression a mixture of surprise and… something else. Recognition? Nostalgia? Pain?
"I… I don't know," she said, her voice hesitant. "I haven't seen that box in… years."
They opened the box together, carefully lifting the lid, revealing a collection of… mementos. Objects from their past, relics of their shared history, forgotten treasures that evoked a flood of memories.
There were concert tickets – to a band they'd both loved, a show they'd attended early in their relationship, a night filled with music, laughter, and a shared sense of connection.
There were dried flowers – a small bouquet of wildflowers that Ava had picked for Beatrice on a hike in the mountains, a spontaneous gesture of affection that had become a cherished keepsake.
There were photographs – pictures of them together, laughing, smiling, their faces filled with the joy of their love, images that captured the essence of their relationship, the moments that had defined them.
And there was a small, folded piece of paper, a poem that Ava had written for Beatrice, a silly, rhyming verse that expressed her love in a playful, lighthearted way. Ava remembered writing it, pouring her heart out onto the page, trying to capture the magic of their connection, the joy she felt in Beatrice's presence.
They sat down on the floor, surrounded by the mementos, their past spread out before them like a map, a visual representation of their journey together. They picked up the objects, one by one, examining them, sharing memories, reminiscing about the moments they represented.
"Remember this?" Ava said, holding up the concert tickets, a small smile playing on her lips. "You spilled beer all over your shirt, and we had to go back to the apartment to change. And then… we didn't… make it back to the concert."
Beatrice blushed, a delicate pink coloring her cheeks. "I remember," she said, her voice soft, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "It was… a good night."
They laughed, a shared laughter that echoed in the room, a reminder of the joy they'd once shared, a glimmer of hope for the future.
But then, Ava picked up a photograph, a picture of them at the beach, their arms around each other, their faces radiant with happiness. The laughter faded, replaced by a wave of sadness, a reminder of what they'd lost.
"I miss this," Ava said, her voice barely a whisper, her eyes filled with tears. "I miss… us."
Beatrice reached out and took Ava's hand, her touch gentle, reassuring. "I know," she said, her voice equally soft, her own eyes mirroring Ava's sadness. "Me too."
They sat there for a long time, surrounded by the remnants of their past, their hands clasped together, their silence filled with unspoken emotions, with shared memories, with a lingering, undeniable connection. It was a moment of both tears and laughter, of sadness and hope, of pain and… healing. It was a reminder of what they'd had, of what they'd lost, and of what they… might… still find again.
That night, after Ava had gone to bed, Beatrice lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind racing. The day had been… intense. Emotionally draining, physically exhausting, but also… surprisingly… positive. The painting, the shared memories, the moment of intimacy, the conversation – it had all brought them closer, rekindling a spark of hope, a glimmer of possibility.
But she couldn't shake the feeling of unease, the sense of… dread… that had been lingering since she'd accepted Jillian's job offer. The more she learned about the project, the more disturbed she became, the more she realized that she'd made a terrible mistake.
She got out of bed, unable to sleep, her mind plagued by anxieties, by fears, by… nightmares. She walked over to her desk, turning on her laptop, the screen illuminating her face with a pale, cold glow.
She opened the document that Jillian had sent her, the one detailing the… artifact… and its connection to Ava's family history. She stared at the photograph of the pendant, a halo with with distinctly familiar markings, the image burned into her memory.
She felt a wave of nausea wash over her, a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had to protect Ava. She had to… stop Jillian. She had to… get out.
She was caught in a web, a tangled mess of secrets, lies, and… danger. But Jillian had her, had leverage over her. She signed a contract and an NDA, she was trapped.
She closed her laptop, her hands trembling, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt… helpless. Hopeless. Terrified.
She went to the window, staring out at the city lights, the glittering cityscape a blur through her tear-filled eyes. She wished she could go back in time, undo her mistakes, erase the pain, reclaim the love she'd lost.
But she couldn't. All she could do was… try. Try to protect Ava. Try to stop Jillian. Try to… survive.
As she stood there, staring out at the darkness, a nightmare began to form in her mind, a terrifying vision of what the future might hold.
She saw Ava, strapped to a cold, stone altar, surrounded by hooded figures, their faces hidden in shadow. She saw Jillian, her eyes glowing with an unnatural light, chanting in a strange, ancient language. She saw the necklace with the halo pendant with with distinctly familiar markings, glowing with a malevolent energy.
She saw Ava screaming, her body writhing in pain, her eyes filled with terror. She saw herself, trying to reach Ava, trying to save her, but she was held back, restrained by unseen forces.
It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. But it felt so… real. So… vivid. So… terrifying.
She woke up with a start, her body covered in a cold sweat, her heart pounding in her chest, the images from the nightmare still vivid in her mind. She lay in bed, trembling, her breath coming in ragged gasps, the fear consuming her.
It wasn't just a nightmare. It was a warning. A premonition. A glimpse of the… danger… that awaited them. And she knew, with a chilling certainty, that she had to do everything in her power to prevent it from becoming a reality. She had to act, she had to be brave, even if it was the last thing she could possibly do.
She couldn't let Jillian hurt Ava, she could not live with herself.