Chapter 5 You are not the only one

The polish glided smoothly over the nail, forming a delicate rose quartz shade. Aitana knew it well. It was a favorite at Spa Luna. Clients requested it when they wanted to project "innocent elegance," that air of calculated tenderness that, in the end, almost always ended up revealing a murky story behind it.

"Do you know who texted me yesterday?" said the girl in front of her, crossing her legs while talking on her phone. "Iker Valverde."

Aitana blinked once, twice. The name still gave her that warm feeling mixed with shivers. She didn't look up. She just moved the brush with surgical precision.

"Who?" she pretended.

"Iker! From Glow Agency, the owner. He texted me directly on Instagram. He said he'd seen my photos and wanted me to participate in an exclusive campaign." The client giggled. "Although the 'campaign' sounds like an excuse." What I wanted was something else, if you know what I mean...

Aitana gritted her teeth, the brush halfway between the bottle of nail polish and her nail.

"And you did it?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you? It's delicious. He has that arrogant tone that makes you want to destroy him... or kiss him."

The words fell like stones. Something inside her chest was breaking, even though Aitana's exterior remained impeccable: a tiny smile, a professional look, a neutral tone.

"It was... yesterday?"

"Yeah. At ten. In his apartment. Ocean view, friend! And those lights! Everything so... intimate."

"Intimate." What a dirty word when you're not the only one.

The client, oblivious to the internal earthquake she was causing, spoke without a filter.

"He gave me wine, put on a playlist of The Weeknd songs, and then... well, you know." She laughed, lowering her voice. I won't say more. But I swear I thought: this man must have a lot of girls. He's too good to be exclusive.

And therein lay the irony: Iker wasn't exclusive. He was an open universe full of rooms with different names... and Aitana had just been another door.

Ten seconds, she thought, activating the UV lamp.

Ten seconds to stop herself from crying.

Ten seconds for her nail polish to dry, and for her heart to dry too.

When the customer left, leaving a tip and promises to "come back soon," Aitana locked herself in the tiny staff bathroom. She rested her hands on the sink and forced herself to look in the mirror.

Dull eyes.

Perfectly shaped eyebrows.

Her mascara was starting to bleed.

"What did you do, Aitana?" she whispered softly, as if the question could be answered by her reflection.

And then the memory came.

FLASHBACK

One week earlier.

Private event.

Scented candles, live nails, models walking in their underwear. The Glow party.

Aitana had been hired to paint quick, "visually striking" nails for girls who would later be photographed with rings, glasses, and accessories. A viral beauty advertising strategy.

And there he was.

Iker Valverde.

Wearing a black shirt, designer glasses, and that intoxicating air of gentle danger.

"I like the way you do the details," he said as she decorated a jelly-style nail in a vibrant peach shade with a fine brush.

She, flattered but nervous, simply replied:

"Thank you."

"And do you make house calls?"

"Only if I like the client."

"Then I have hope."

From that sentence to the glass of wine they shared two hours later, everything was a sequence of subtle movements, slow glances, lingering smiles. Nothing was clumsy; everything was calculated. And she, fool or human, fell for it.

Then came more dates. Afternoons at his office, secret breakfasts, midnight texts.

And one night, that night, without a condom.

"Relax, I've got everything under control," he told her in a soft voice, placing his hands on her bare back.

Back in the present, Aitana reached for her small appointment book. There she wrote down everything. Everything. And among the pages marked with flower stickers, highlighters, and paper clips, were also her personal dates: menstrual cycle, ovulation, discomfort.

Day 14. That very night.

She felt like the world was turning without her. She slumped into one of the chairs in the spa's locker room, her face in her hands, her heart weighing like a wet stone in her chest.

"What if I'm pregnant?" she said out loud, not wanting to hear herself.

The door swung open. It was Camila, the receptionist, in her immaculate white uniform, cell phone in her hand.

"Aitana! Iker's here!" He came to ask if you could help him. He says he wants to set up an exclusive nail session for his models and that you're "the best."

Aitana felt breathless.

Now he came to use her like it was nothing? After also using half the city?

"Tell him I'm not available," she said, standing up slowly. "That I'm busy."

"But..."

"Tell him, Camila. Please."

Camila nodded, though her eyes lingered on her for a second longer. She knew. She knew something. Everyone was starting to get suspicious.

Aitana was alone again. She walked to the back of the spa, where the sun streamed in through a skylight and everything smelled of lavender and acetone.

There was a corner where she sometimes rested, with a pink velvet chair.

She sat down. She closed her eyes. She rested her head against the back of the chair.

And she cried.

Not just for the betrayal. Not just for the deception. She cried for herself. For her naiveté. For having believed words disguised as promises. For having confused caresses with commitment.

She cried for all those who, like her, thought they were the only one.

And as she dried her face, an idea planted itself like a seed:

"This won't stay like this."

She would stand up.

She would finish her day.

But it wouldn't be the same.

Now she had a huge doubt.

And maybe, just maybe, she didn't want to know the answer.