STELLA
In hindsight, I should have seen this coming. All night, the look in his eyes told me he wanted me. I know how men look when they want me; I see it in the way their eyes glaze with longing, their body leans in with expectation like I owe them something. I’ve even kissed my fair share of men, with little feeling, just lust and longing.
And maybe it’s the way he holds me, looks at me in between, pulling his lips away from mine, only to collide against me like I’m his breath, that I feel something quite different. It’s a fire, not easily put out. The only remedy is him. I don’t like feeling this powerless to anyone, but to him, it feels catatonic. Like no number of touches, glances, or recoils could be enough.
So, I play into his hands like clay perfectly sculpted on a wheel. I’m numb to the rest of the world, oblivious to the consequences of feeling this type of passion. Then it hits me all at once, when his hands are under my top, and I tilt my neck for him to kiss.
I’m drunk. That’s why I feel this way. I haven’t kissed anyone while I was this drunk in a long while. I bet that’s it. It has to be. There’s no other explanation except that. He’s had more than his fair share as well, so I should probably pull away now before we regret this.
I grab his hands, guide them to my bare waist under my jacket and pull away. We breathe steadily, and he tilts his head questioningly. I shake my head, unable to get the words out to make this moment end.
He leans in close, pressing his lips to my neck, sending goosebumps all over my far-too-comfortable-in-his-arms body. They trail up to my ears, and he quietly whispers, “You wanted to give them a show,” before pulling away completely.
“Good night, Stell.” He kisses my hand one more time, and my heart sinks. Why does my heart sink? He’s playing his part well— a little too well, but I’ll address it when I can actually form a coherent thought on the matter. I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, nod my head, and turn to the door.
I see security waiting on the other side of the foyer. When they spot my glance, they walk over to the door and let me in as I look back, watching Antonio’s red velvet suit exit the courtyard.
“Have a nice evening, Princess?” Alk looks up from his magazine, glasses on his nose, sitting in the side chair at the curvature of the staircase.
“Did you wait up for me, Alk?”
“Who, me?” I implicitly raise my brows at his coyness.
“No, of course not. I was just reading about you on page six of,” he looks at the front of the magazine like he doesn’t know what he’s reading. “Seventeen Magazine.” He nods presumptuously.
“Mhmm. The usual?” I start to head up the stairs, though I should have taken the elevator.
“Oh, yeah, something about you being a fashion icon or something.” I snort a laugh and continue up the stairs, reaching the elevator at the top and heading to the fourth floor.
My room is quiet, one lantern burning in the corner still. I quickly change into my blue Gucci Silk Tian print pajama set, washing my face with persistence. I want to crawl into bed with my makeup on, but I can’t bring myself to do it. If I’m going to wash my face, I might as well do my twelve-step skincare routine, so I throw that in too, for good measure.
I pull my hair up in a topknot, brush my teeth, and climb into bed at the ripe early hours of a new day. I feel as though I’ve been in the ocean all day, my equilibrium rising and falling to a rhythm I endeavor to pinpoint. It’s not long before I’ve drifted to sleep, dreaming of flashing lights and rising tides.
In the morning, I awake to the smell of breakfast, my maid, Mayne, opening the curtains to let some light in. Surprisingly, I’m not hungover, just hungry, so I begin to eat from the tray. Poached eggs on avocado toast with a side of fruit.
“Thank you,” I call as she leaves the room as silently as she came.
“Yes, Ms. Lombardi,” she calls back without looking, closing the door quietly behind her. I check my phone as I eat, opening up to thirty messages in my friends group chat. At the top, are links to five different news sources talking about my supposed evening out with a mystery model.
Iris, “Um… Model?”
Jens, an actor, obscure music and movie lover, thinks his opinion is always pristine. “Why was I not told about this, Stella?”
Brandt, a famous producer— name a pop song; I bet he’s worked on it. “Jens, you guys dated in fifth grade.” I snort a laugh at that one. Consistently blunt Brandt.
The rest of my friends chime in their remarks until it seems to have spiraled into dinner plans. Just as I finish reading the long string of texts, I get a call from Iris.
“Hey, Stella.”
“What’s up?”
“I feel like I should be asking you that.” She laughs, and I shake my head with a grin. There’s a pause on the line until she says, “So….”
“So, he was nice, I guess.”
“Nice? We’re not gonna talk about the fact that he looks like a fucking science experiment to create the most anatomically attractive male?” I scoff a laugh.
“Okay, he’s not that attractive.” A lie.