There are faces you forget effortlessly. And then there are those that cling to memory like a scar: subtle, persistent, painful on certain nights. Catarina belonged to the second category.
Since that night at the bar, the "chance" encounters, and finally that night spent together in the apartment he had rented, Sylus had convinced himself it was nothing more than a game. A parenthesis. A breath of unpredictability in a life regulated like Swiss clockwork.
Yet every time he closed his eyes, he saw a detail: the way she lifted her head when she lied.
The nervous twitch of her fingers on the edge of a cup. And that gaze, above all. A gaze swinging between curiosity and caution, as if she were trying to guess whether he was danger… or an escape.
He had sworn not to get attached. And yet, the promise cracked a little more each time she laughed. Because she had a light that even fatigue could not extinguish. Because she spoke of the world with naïveté and clarity at once, a strange, destabilizing, almost tender mix.
Sylus's world rested on two pillars: control and distance. Control over himself, over words, over people. And distance, an invisible wall he erected between himself and anything resembling emotion.
But Catarina defied it all. She wasn't trying to seduce him. She disarmed him with her shaky honesty, her silences, the awkward mystery she carried like a perfume too strong.
That evening, they met again in a discreet café, halfway between luxury and mundanity. The light was soft, the murmur of distant conversations gentle. Catarina played with her ring, a tic he was beginning to recognize.
"You think too much," she said, lifting her eyes.
He gave a small smile.
"Bad habit."
"You should learn to let yourself be surprised."
"And you, not to tempt the devil."
She shrugged, a spark of defiance in her gaze.
"Maybe I like the fire."
The exchange was brief, yet something had shifted. He felt the balance slip, imperceptibly. Their words had ceased to be trivial. Their silences grew heavy, almost dangerous.
When she left, her scent lingered in the air, heady. For the first time in a long while, Sylus felt an absence. Not the lack of a body, but the lack of a presence he had refused to admit.
He came home late that night. The city was sleeping under a fine drizzle. His house waited for him, silent, immaculate, cold. On the piano rested the photo of Aurora, his wife, dead for eighteen years. He traced the frame with a finger, brushing away invisible dust.
"You'd laugh at me," he murmured.
Because he knew it: he was walking on a wire. And a single name, a truth still hidden, could topple everything he had built.
The next day, everything returned to its place. Meetings, files, numbers.
Sylus Ashbourne in all his glory: cold, precise, unreadable.
Yet in a corner of his mind, a voice kept returning:
"You should learn to let yourself be surprised."
He tried to ignore it. But that evening, while putting files away, his phone buzzed. A message. Catarina.
"You were right. The devil isn't so scary once you know how to talk to him."
He stared at the screen for a long moment before replying:
"The danger is when you start to please him."
She didn't answer. But the next day, she was there.
Sitting in the same spot as their second meeting, a cup of tea in hand, eyes on the window, as if she knew he would come. As if she had guessed.
He sat across from her, wordless. She lifted her eyes, a nearly timid smile playing at the corner of her lips.
"See," she said softly, "fire always attracts."
"Until it burns," he murmured.
"Maybe. But at least you feel alive."
He wanted to tell her to stop. To stop coming. But instead, he ordered a coffee. And stayed.
Weeks passed like this, between coincidences and disguised meetings. She, with her awkwardness and honesty. He, with his silences and words sharpened like weapons. They met without saying it, sought each other without admitting they found one another. And each time, the line between them grew thinner.
One evening, she entered his apartment for their second night together, soaked from the rain. She wore a simple black dress, and her gaze betrayed an emotion Sylus didn't immediately understand.
"You could have waited for me to come," he said in a low voice.
"And you could have told me not to," she replied calmly.
Silence. Their breaths brushed. And in that silence, he knew the fall had begun again.He could have stepped back, said something, pushed her away.
But he did nothing. Neither did she.
When their lips met, it was both a fault and a relief. A collision, brutal, necessary. Something too strong, too real to be reasonable.
By morning, she had risen first. She stayed a moment, watching him sleep. Tired features, relaxed jaw, the man almost vulnerable. Almost.
She pressed a discreet kiss to his shoulder. A silent goodbye. Or perhaps a promise. Then she left without looking back.
That evening, when Sylus returned, Catarina's scent still lingered in the air, a remnant. He tried to erase it, to convince himself it was just a fleeting lapse. But his mind said otherwise. And so did the trace of red on the collar of his shirt.
He took a cold shower. Then went downstairs, glass in hand, trying to reclaim the logic of his world. But it was too late.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He was about to go upstairs to bed when a voice rang out:
"Dad!"
He jumped. Althéa came bounding down the stairs, phone in hand, wearing an oversized sweater and mismatched socks. Her blonde hair escaped from a messy bun. She smiled, radiant, carefree.
Every time he saw her, it was like seeing Aurora at eighteen. A luminous ghost.
"You're home late again," she frowned.
"Work," he replied automatically.
"You should rest. Damien says you look exhausted."
He gave a tired smile.
"Damien talks too much."
She laughed lightly.
"I left you dinner. And you know what? My best friend is coming over soon. You'll like her, I'm sure."
He looked up, distracted.
"Your best friend?"
"Catarina."
The name exploded in his mind like a slap.He froze. Seconds stretched.
"Catarina?" he repeated slowly.
"Yes. Catarina D'Amelio. You'll see, she's amazing."
She climbed the stairs, leaving behind a scent of vanilla and youth. Sylus remained there, motionless, hand on the railing, breath caught.
Catarina. The name spun in his head like a sentence. Reality had just closed in around him. And he understood, in that silence, that the game was over. Unless it was another Catarina. He also understood that, without realizing it, he had crossed the one line you never cross.