Camila?

Sebastian

Yesterday we had dinner at my mother's place, and once again, Camila pulled something. She just up and left during dinner, claiming she wasn't feeling well. I was so annoyed that I left right after and went to meet my friends.

We went to our spot — the one only we know about. I didn't want to risk running into Soraia out somewhere. That was another one who wouldn't leave me alone. I got caught up in the guys' games, drinking and talking, and the night flew by.

"So tell us, Sebastian — what did Camila do this time? You showed up looking like you could murder someone," Leone said, laughing.

"Same as always. We went to dinner at my parents' house, and she just got up and left saying she felt sick."

"Where'd she go?" Gustavo asked, cracking up.

"How should I know? Probably home," I snapped, already irritated.

"Sebastian, you didn't even call her? What if somebody put something in her food?" Pedro Henrique asked.

"What are you talking about? Who would do that? We're talking about my parents' house!" I fired back, ready to strangle this so-called friend.

"You play dumb sometimes, Sebastian. Your mother and sister hate Camila. I don't even know why you keep taking her there."

"My mother just doesn't like the way Camila forced her way into our family — crawling into my bed after drugging me. My father and grandfather love her, though. God knows why."

"Maybe because she's a wonderful person? She was a kid, Sebastian — seventeen! You said it yourself: she was desperate, crying, begging you not to do anything to her, saying she was confused and disoriented."

"And you think I should've believed that story? I must be a real fool."

"Who else was at dinner tonight?" Leone asked.

"Besides the family, just Soraia."

"See? Your mother always brings that woman around to humiliate Camila. You should just leave her at home. You never take her anywhere except your parents' house, and then you just sit there watching while they tear the poor girl apart."

"Camila is nobody's victim. She schemed her way into marrying the biggest businessman in this city," I shot back. I came out here to relax, and now I'm getting a lecture from this clueless idiot?

"You know what, Sebastian? I care about you — I'm a real friend. But I can't accept the way you treat that girl. She was a kid. You have the resources to find out what really happened that night, but you never bothered to look for the truth. You spent all these years making her pay for something she may never have done. And another thing — you made a three-year contract: if no feelings developed, you'd divorce and go your separate ways. So why are you still married to her?"

"That's none of your business. Go take care of your own sad, boring life."

"Both of you, stop it!" Gustavo, who'd been quiet until now, cut in. "You're not going to fight."

After that, we dropped the subject.

Memories of that night, four years ago, flooded my head.

I'd been at a business dinner at a grand hotel, surrounded by executives and entrepreneurs. At some point, I started feeling smothered — dizzy, off-balance. I tried to slip out.

I remember leaving discreetly, not wanting to draw attention. In the hallway, someone approached. A man. He knew me — he propped me up.

"Stay calm, Sebastian. You'll be fine. Come on, I'll take you somewhere to rest. You'll feel better soon." I couldn't place the voice.

He brought me to a room.

"Lie down for a bit. It'll do you good."

I was alone, fighting to breathe, terrified of a panic attack. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, practiced breathing exercises. I considered taking a shower but didn't feel steady enough. I went back to the bed.

I couldn't believe what I saw. There was a woman — completely naked — in the room. She must have walked into the wrong one.

She came toward me, and I froze.

"I'm so hot. It feels like I'm on fire. Can you help me?"

I moved closer to guide her out, but she grabbed me and kissed me. The girl was desperate, rubbing one leg against the other. She really was burning up. I lifted her and carried her to the bed. I don't remember much of that night — just confused flashes.

The next morning, I woke with a splitting headache. I heard a soft sobbing and turned toward the sound.

If I hadn't been lying down, I would've collapsed. There was a girl next to me who didn't look older than fifteen.

What had I done?

I turned on her, furious.

"Who are you? What are you doing in this bed with me? Did you drug me?"

She was terrified, just shaking her head no, getting dressed in a panic.

"I didn't do anything, sir. Please believe me. I don't remember anything. Please don't kill me."

I looked at her. The girl was a wreck. Then I noticed — I hadn't been gentle. I saw blood on the sheets. My God. What had I done?

She was covered in bruises, her whole body marked. She threw on her clothes any which way and ran out, disappearing before I could make sense of anything.

"Sebastian! Earth to Sebastian!" I heard Leone calling me back.

"You're clenching your jaw — the thing you do when you're furious," Pedro Henrique pointed out.

We stayed up all night talking. They drank; I switched to tonic water. My stomach wasn't reliable — the pain was brutal when my esophagitis flared up. One of the things Camila did for me was manage my diet. Every single day, she prepared healthy meals and brought them to the office — food that was easy on my stomach. I never understood why she did it, considering I'd never once thanked her.

When I got home, it was almost nine in the morning. Camila had the look of someone deeply offended. She handed me the divorce papers. I found it amusing.

When I decided to show her exactly why she'd never leave, I was caught off guard by a woman who was intensely present and willing. Camila left me dizzy. We made love for hours. Afterward, I got up and went to shower.

I came back to the bedroom. She wasn't there. Probably showering in the other bathroom — we'd never showered together. She'd be back soon enough, wearing that satisfied expression.

She didn't come back. Even though I was exhausted, I went to the kitchen to eat. She wasn't there either. Where had this woman gone? I checked the living room.

Not there.

"Camila!" I called. No answer. I was heading back upstairs when an envelope on the table caught my eye.

Inside was the divorce agreement. On top of it sat her wedding ring.

Was she playing games with me? Oh, Camila. You sweet, foolish girl.

I went back to the bedroom and waited for her. When she came back, I wanted the pleasure of laughing in her face.

What exactly did Camila think she'd accomplish with this little game? I lay down and waited for her to walk through the door.

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