The Game of Mirrors Ricardo sent a banal message: "I'll be late for the gym, I'll be back for dinner. I love you." You see it, but don't reply. His "I love you" sounds like background noise, something you've memorized, but that no longer thrills you. The real sound you're waiting for is the silent notification that arrives soon after. It's him. No words, just a picture of a hotel key and the room number. The Ritual of Dissimulation You look at yourself in the mirror. There's an electricity in your gaze that Ricardo hasn't seen in years. You choose the black lingerie, the one you bought secretly, and hide it under a demure dress. The contrast of the lace's touch on your skin as you leave the house feels like a burning secret. Upon arriving at the hotel, the elevator ride seems to last an eternity. In the reflection of the polished metal, you see a woman you don't recognize: audacious, dangerous. Between Crime and Desire The door to room 402 barely opens and you're already pulled inside. His kiss lacks the delicacy of a husband; It has the urgency of someone who knows that time is being stolen. — You're trembling — he whispers, his hands sliding down your back with a possessiveness that makes you forget any guilt. — It's fear — you confess, your voice faltering as he unbuttons your dress. — And desire. His scent is different, stronger, clinging to your skin. As you surrender to the moment, the weight of the ring on your finger seems to disappear, replaced by the warmth of his hands. But, deep down, the clock doesn't stop. Every second of pleasure is a second less before you have to return to the dinner table, look Ricardo in the eyes, and pretend you spent the afternoon reading a book.