Everything's wrong, but it's fine. You became the mistress.

Prologue:

I swear to God and my wine collection that I never wanted to be anyone's mistress.

I've always criticized these types of women. I've always spoken badly of them. But... here I am.

Swallowing my words-and a few tears-in a hotel bathroom.

I'm Marília Marques, 30 years old, a senior lawyer, independent and in control.

I love lists, I love routine. I hate the unexpected.

And I'd rather spend a cold night with my glass of Cabernet than get involved with a married man.

But the universe-that boundless joker-decided to gift me with an explosive combination:

A crooked smile. A sharp conversation. A tailored suit.

And, of course, a marital status that she conveniently "forgot" to mention.

Result? I'm locked in the bathroom of a boutique hotel in Campinas, my mascara running, my heart racing like I've had five double espressos, and a message flashing on my phone:

"Go out the back door. Rebeca just arrived."

Rebeca. Wife's name. Problem name.

Our problem. Or rather, my problem.

I should run. Hide. Cry.

But you know what I do?

I take a deep breath, wipe off my smudged lipstick, stare at myself in the illuminated mirror, and say, without blinking:

"Congratulations, Marília. You've become a statistic. You've become a lover.

Precisely what you always swore you'd never be."

The day I became the other woman:

"If it weren't for how I feel in his arms, I swear to God I would have blocked him, ignored him, forgotten him. But it's in him I lose myself, and that's what's holding me back."

I swear to God, on my dignity (which I'm still trying to save), and on my collection of imported wines, that I never wanted to be anyone's lover. Ever.

I've always looked askance at that kind of woman: "Poor thing, she doesn't value herself, she's a fool, her self-esteem must be the size of an olive."

Well then! If anyone up there can hear me, congratulations: today I am exactly that woman. I'm here, locked in the bathroom of a boutique hotel in Campinas, my mascara running, my heart racing as if I'd had five double espressos, and a notification flashing on my phone:

"Go out the back door. Rebecca just arrived."

Rebecca. Name of my wife. Name of the problem.

In my thirty years of life, I've never had trouble recognizing danger signs: poorly worded clauses in a contract, a client trying to back out, an ex-boyfriend who disappears on the eve of my birthday. I always saw him first. I always cut her off first.

But today... oh, today I failed miserably. I let my phone slide across the marble counter. It vibrated again. Another text, another order.

I should feel shame, disgust, fear, all at once. And I do. But what really paralyzes me is a persistent little voice inside my head repeating: "Congratulations, Marília. You've become a statistic. You've become my lover. Only you."

I look in the mirror. The light is harsh. My lipstick, a chic red from MAC, has turned into a smear worthy of a depressed clown. A strand of mascara runs down my cheek like a dried tear. I run my finger over it, smearing it even more. Why am I crying?

Why did Rebeca come? Because Fábio is married? Because I'm the other woman?

Or because, deep down, I knew from his first smile that this was going to be a disaster, and yet I still wanted to jump in headfirst?

Two months ago. Thursday, after work. Me, in a beige suit, reviewing a contract in a shabby café in a posh coworking space in Cambuí.

He arrived late to a meeting, talking loudly, laughing out loud, surrounded by people laughing at his bad jokes. I thought: "Arrogant." And went back to my laptop.

Five minutes later, he asked me-uninvited-if he could sit in the empty chair next to me. I said no. He sat down anyway.

Tailored suit, expensive watch, that perfume lingering on the collar of his jacket. And the smile. Oh, the smile. One corner of his mouth more crooked than the other, a little lazy. The kind where they take off your clothes without touching them. We talked about trivialities: coffee, traffic, politics, wine. All very civilized. He asked for my card; he said he was interested in a legal opinion.

I gave it to him, pretending not to like the way his fingers brushed against mine. I went home with a pang in my stomach that wasn't hunger. That same night, a text:

"I need to ask an urgent legal question. Dinner tomorrow?"

I should have said no.

I should have deleted it.

I should have laughed, opened a glass of Cabernet, and watched some stupid reality show until I fell asleep.

Instead, I typed:

"Sure. Which restaurant?"

I let the memory swallow my stomach as I looked again at the message blinking on my phone. "Exit through the back door."

Even in this, I'm a cliché: the lover flees through the back door as the wife arrives.

How many jokes have I made about this? How many friends have I heard crying about being the other woman? I'd pat her on the shoulder, pour her wine, and say, "Friend, let her go. He'll never leave her."

Look who should have listened to their own advice.

I sit on the toilet, taking a deep breath. I'm dizzy. I don't know if it's from the wine or the guilt.

I slump forward, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My blazer is discarded somewhere in the room, I've kicked off my heels, my dignity must be lying under the bed, huddled in panties I don't even know where they are.

I'm not that woman.

I'm not the poor woman.

I'm not the fool waiting for a married man to get off the speakerphone to say "I love you."

I'm Marília Marques. Senior attorney, with an impeccable license to practice law, junior partner at the most respected firm in the city. I draft million-dollar contracts. I win impossible cases. I buy my own expensive wines.

And yet... here I am. Alone in a bathroom, while he organizes his comfortable life with the perfect wife, the perfect house, the life of a margarine salesman that he insists on hiding from me, or revealing when he wants to keep me in my place.

I open my phone again. I read the message about five times. I want to reply: "Fuck off, Fábio. I'm going out. I'm going to say hi to Rebeca. I'll tell her everything."

I don't do any of that. I just type: "Okay." And I don't send it. I delete it. I write again. I delete again. I laugh. A dry, stifled laugh that makes me cough.

My reflection in the mirror stares back at me as if to say: "Really, Marília? Are you going to swallow this too?"

I do it.

I get up, turn on the faucet, wet my hands, and run it over the back of my neck. Cold water. I breathe. I mentally run through it: Clean phone? No screenshots? No messages? Purse with everything? Presentable face? Decent hair? Everything under control, except me.

I open the bathroom door. The room is still a mess: wrinkled sheets, half-empty wine glasses, a tie forgotten on the armchair. Her scent still hangs in the air: a mix of expensive perfume and lies.

I hear muffled voices in the hallway. A woman's laughter. Rebecca? It must be her. I picture her: stilettos, brushed hair, that jacket matching her purse. She must be beautiful. She must be perfect.

She must be the woman I said she would be, until she became my lover.

I grab my purse, put on my heels, and check my smudged lipstick in the phone mirror. I don't even try to fix it. There's no way to smooth over a tragedy.

I open the bedroom door slowly, looking out into the hallway. The elevator is far away. The receptionist, poor thing, doesn't even look me in the eye, or maybe she does, she looks at me with pity.

I cross the hallway on autopilot. One, two, three steps. I go through the emergency exit. The service stairs smell of cheap disinfectant mixed with expensive perfume: mine, which is left on Fábio's neck.

Halfway down the stairs, I stop. I lean against the cold wall. I close my eyes. I try to remember who I was before him. Before this chaos. The woman who wouldn't accept crumbs. The woman who thought love was for insecure teenagers. The woman who laughed at forbidden love affairs in bad movies.

Where is she now?

She's here, hidden inside me, screaming, "Run!"

But it's too late. I can't turn the key again. I can't return a stolen kiss. I can't fall asleep in a bed that isn't yours.

I can't return my heart.

My phone vibrates again. Last notification of the night:

"I love you. Wait for me. Everything will be okay."

The laughter that comes out of my mouth fills the empty stairwell. If anyone hears me, they'll think there's a crazy person here. And maybe there is.

I answer, whispering to myself,

"Congratulations, Marília. You've become a statistic. You've become a lover." And I go down, step by step, carrying my guilt, my heels, my wounded dignity, and that stupid hope that insists on saying, "Just a little longer. He'll leave her. He'll choose you."

When I set foot on the sidewalk next to the hotel, dawn envelops me with its icy air and yellow streetlights. I should feel relieved to have escaped.

But all I feel is a tightness in my chest that screams, "This was only the beginning."

And I know it's true.

It all happened because I gave in to that absurd idea: the illusion that I could come and go as I pleased, that I was mature enough to sample a bit of its flavor, have fun, and emerge unscathed. How stupid of me: to think I could only play with fire as much as possible. That I could sit at the table, accept a glass of wine, swallow a well-told lie, and still emerge unscathed, as if I were immune.

That night, I swore to myself that I was in control. That there was no risk, that there was nothing more. An expensive dinner, a good conversation, a crooked smile. That was it, I repeated in my head. And all I had to do was get up from the table, thank him, call my car, and leave.

But that's not what I did. Because the problem with believing you're in control is forgetting that the other party knows how to play the game, too. And Fábio... Fábio always knew exactly how far to let me believe I was in control. If someone were to ask me today at what exact moment I should have gotten up from the table and left, I'd know: when the waiter brought the second glass of wine.

It wasn't the wine itself; I'm good with a glass, and even better with limits. The problem was the way he held my hand when he ordered another round. So gently, his finger on mine, as if sealing a tacit agreement.

As a lawyer, I should have known that that touch was a verbal contract to get into trouble. And that, unlike the contracts I scrutinize down to the last comma, I was going to sign this one with my eyes closed.

I remember the whole scene as if it were projected on a giant screen. Me, sitting in an elegant Italian restaurant in Cambuí. Fábio on my other side, his jacket thrown over the back of his chair, his white shirt with the top button undone; a simple detail that, combined with his smile, would have shattered any defense.

He started talking about work. "Tell me more about your firm, Marília. Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?" I, proud, recounting my story as a working-class girl: daughter of a professor, father of a banker, intern at a private school, who passed the bar exam on the first try, a junior partner before turning thirty. The pride of the Marques family, the one who always knew what she wanted.

He listened to everything with that look of someone who seems interested in every word. He swirled the wine in his glass, rested his chin in his hand, and smiled at the right moments. A perfect audience.

Ten minutes into the conversation, I'd already forgotten the mental warning that said, "A man who's too charming = headache."

Then came the first lie.

He said suddenly:

"Do you know what I admire most about you?" he asked, leaning forward, as if he were about to tell me a secret.

"What?"

"You don't seem like the type to waste time playing games."

I looked at him, laughing:

"Playing?" "Yes. Charming people. Who are a little clumsy. You're direct, Marília. I love it."

Aha. Of course. The king of charm complimenting me for not being charming.

I should have realized. I should have been wary of those who compliment too soon, those who seem to understand you too quickly. They're always bait.

But I was too busy smiling back. And accepting the second glass of wine.

The food arrived. Homemade ravioli that I barely touched. Between bites, he started dropping phrases that, today, would sound like fire alarms.

"I broke up a while ago."

"Now I'm focused on work."

"Relationships are complicated, right? But with you... I don't know, everything seems lighter."

Pay close attention to that last part. "Everything seems lighter." Translation: "I'm going to make you think this is special, but without promising anything."

At that moment, I just laughed, swirling my glass. Not because I believed it, but because I wanted to believe it. It's different, you know? Sometimes we don't fall for the lie, we just dive right in.

When we finished the meal, the waiter brought the bill. Fábio insisted on paying everything. I even tried to split it, like a modern, independent, self-possessed woman insists, so as not to owe any man anything.

He shook his head, opened his wallet, and swiped the metal card that shone brighter than his smile.

"Today's on me," he winked at me.

"And tomorrow?" I asked half-jokingly.

He smiled, with that corner of his mouth twisting:

"Tomorrow's yours. And the day after tomorrow, too."

Done. Contract signed in small print: I'd come back. Many times.

From the restaurant to the car, Campinas seemed to conspire in my favor. A warm night, a warm wind, those streetlights that make everything look like something out of a bad romance movie. The street was almost empty. Fábio walked beside me, one hand in his pocket and the other brushing my elbow as I stumbled on the cobblestones.

He pulled up next to his car, a black SUV that must have been worth more than my rented apartment. He opened the passenger door like someone opening a car door.

I should have said, "Thanks for dinner, it was great, good night."

I should have gotten into my Uber, gone back to my comforter, my Cabernet, my safe world as a woman who doesn't get into trouble.

But I stayed there, leaning against the cool side of the car, feeling the pads of his fingers brush my arm.

And he, of course, noticed. The man has a good nose for doubt.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I lied.

"Do you want a ride home?" "Another bait."

"No need, I'll get a car," I tried, faint as a breath.

He laughed. A short, soft laugh, one I knew by heart.

"Then get in. I'll drop you off at the door. I promise to behave."

I laughed back, like someone who believes him.

"You? Are you behaving?"

"I always behave," he gave me that look that debunks any argument.

I got in.

Inside the car, his scent permeated everything: leather, perfume, the low stereo: a generic playlist of modern jazz, which I bet he doesn't even listen to when he's alone. But it worked. It still works today.

He drove slowly, one hand on the wheel and the other near the gear shift. Too close to my leg. I could feel the warmth of his fingers without them touching me. And I wished he would.

Halfway there, he asked me my address, as if I wouldn't memorize it later.

"Really, Cambuí?" he confirmed.

"Really, Cambuí. Close to everything, far from trouble," I said, as if it were a private irony. Far from trouble, imagine.

He gave a short laugh, turned a corner, stopped at a stoplight. And there, at the red light, he looked at me. A second that lasted an eternity.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Yes." "I haven't wanted to be around someone like that in a long time."

If I'd been smart, I would have answered with a joke.

If I'd been strong, I would have said, "You never get used to it."

But I simply took a deep breath. And he leaned in. He kissed my chin, then my mouth. Slowly, almost asking for permission.

And I let him.

That kiss lasted longer than the red light. The car stopped, the engine running, my consciousness shut off. The next thing I knew, the honk of another car woke me up. He laughed against my mouth. I laughed too.

Two grown adults, laughing at a joke we knew exactly where it was going.

We arrived at my building. He pulled up in front, in no hurry to turn off the car. His hand was on the doorknob, all rational, all "woman who knows when to stop."

He grabbed my wrist.

"Can I come up?" he asked brazenly. I should have said no.

I should have said "Not today."

But my defenses were on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, laughing in my face.

"You can," he escaped my mouth before I could swallow.

We got on. The elevator was silent. His breath was behind me, hot on the back of my neck. He wasn't even looking at the elevator camera: a lawyer's paranoia. If someone reviewed those images... well, that was it.

Inside my apartment, he complimented me on my wine rack, my jazz playlist, the same one I listened to alone while working late into the night.

He opened a bottle without asking. He poured two glasses. He toasted me as if the evening were casual, light, with no secrets.

From there to bed, three steps without resistance.

He was everything he'd promised: gentle, precise, attentive. Every caress, every kiss, every whispered phrase felt like a promise of eternity.

And I... I convinced myself nothing was wrong. "Separated." That's what he said. "It's been a while." That's what I thought.

When I woke up, it was almost morning. He was still there, sleeping next to me, his arm around my waist.

I looked into his face. I thought, "Is this real? Is this really it? Am I fooling myself?"

He opened his eyes, smiled that crooked smile, kissed my forehead, and whispered,

"I'll figure this out, okay? I promise."

He did.

I believed him.

And that's how it all began: an expensive dinner, a well-told lie, an invisible contract signed with a kiss, and Marília Marques, quite rightly, became the other.

First lie swallowed. First of many.

Deep down, I knew it.

But between knowing it and doing something about it... there's a warm bed, a crooked smile, a man who says "I want you" without giving anything up.

And me, stupid, saying yes.

It's that woman's fault.

If it weren't for her, for that invisible bond that ties him to another life, another home, another broken promise, he'd be with me already. He would have chosen by now, crossed the line, and left it all behind. But he doesn't. And he doesn't because he has to, because that name I don't say is etched into his skin like a chain he can't break, even if he wants to.

That woman is the wall that separates me from him, the obstacle that turns every encounter into a stolen sigh, every word into a lie disguised as truth, every absence into a void that consumes me. And here I am, waiting, trapped in this absurd wait, guilty for wanting what I can't have and for losing myself in a game we won't win.

Because as long as she exists, as long as he has this obligation, I will always be the other. And this guilt, which falls on her, weighs on me too.

I should be sleeping. In fact, I should be doing something other than clutching my phone like a self-esteem defibrillator. But here I am. 2:23 in the morning. Sitting on the couch, wearing an old college sweatshirt, my hair tied back in a crooked bun, my lipstick smudged from a wine that's been out for about thirty minutes, but I keep licking the rim of my glass, as if I can find some trace of dignity there.

Deep down, I know. I know this notification won't come now. And yet, I refresh WhatsApp as if I were a lawyer on call. In a way, I am. The only difference is that the defendant is my heart, and the sentence, well, has already been handed down.

Fábio said he'd call me "as soon as I get out of the meeting."

What meeting is this, at 11:00 PM on a Friday? I don't know. It must be the "meeting" with his king-size bed. Rebeca, his wife, must be lying next to me, watching the show, worrying about the logistics of Sunday brunch. And me? Here I am, memorizing every minute of emptiness.

I get up and go to the kitchen. The floor is cold, the light is too cold. I open the fridge. I close it. I open it again. It's automatic, like obsessive-compulsive disorder. The only thing that's changed since the last time I opened it is the ice melting in the ice bucket. And my patience, which is at rock bottom.

Between the shelves, I see an expensive jar of jam I bought last week, a gourmet special at the Cambuí delicatessen. At the time, I thought it was elegant. Now I look at it and think: what's the point of spreading jam on bread if I don't even have any bread?

My phone vibrates. I almost hit my head on the fridge door, I'm turning it so fast. It's instinct: him! It's him! Of course it's him!

It's not. It's Renata. My Renata. My best friend, my confidant, my sense of reality when I lose mine, which has been happening to me every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Sometimes, on Sundays too.

"Are you alive?"

I take a deep breath. I write slowly, as if to hide my fiasco:

"Unfortunately."

Her pen turns green; she's already writing. I love this woman. I love her more than this man. Too bad that doesn't stop me from making a mistake.

"She disappeared, right?"

"It's not a disappearance. It's style. It's charm. It's suspense."

"Luxury ghost."

I laugh to myself. She knows me too well.

"Friend, I already told you: a married man is like a sale on clothes. He seems worth it, but he has flaws. And there are no exchanges."

"You're very poetic today."

"Go to sleep, Marília." "I'm leaving."

Lie. I'm not leaving.

I close the fridge again, as if it were an exorcism ritual. I return to the living room. The sofa swallows me. It smells of fabric softener and loneliness. My phone rests on my lap, heavy, warm, almost an extension of my body. I think: Is he writing? Is he writing and erasing? Is he forgetting me on purpose?

The TV is on the nightly news, but I can't even hear it. My head is playing a movie: the first night with him. The first crooked smile. The first lie I decided to swallow like someone swallowing a pill without water.

I relive that scene as if it were now. Me in heels, wine in hand, him talking nonsense about Dubai. I don't even know where Dubai is. But I thought he was sexy. He looked at me like I was the first woman on the planet. And I let him. I wanted to. My whole body was screaming: Go! My head was saying: No way. And guess who lost?

I return to the present. My phone remains silent. I check Instagram, as if I'm about to find a clue to a crime. I open Rebeca's profile, of course. I follow her with a fake account I created just for that. There it is: a photo of her today, at a gala. Black dress, flawless hair, a motivational message from an empowered woman. The message says: "A real woman doesn't compete, she shines."

I want to laugh. But I laugh nervously. She is competing. Even if it's with me. Even if she doesn't even know it.

I keep scrolling through the feed. She's gorgeous in all of them. In one, Fábio appears behind her, holding a glass of sparkling wine, a smile I recognize. That smile that dismantles any defense. The smile I swear was mine, only mine, at least a few hours a week.

I should stop doing this. I should block him.

I should block her.

I should, I should, I should...

But I'm not blocking anything. Not even my own shame.

Renata sends me an audio message. I hit play and turn down the volume on the TV:

"Dude, listen to something. You're not stupid, okay? You're just in love. He's the stupid one. Or maybe he's too smart. The point is, if he wanted to give it all up, he would have done it already. You know it, I know it, even the doorman at your building knows it. So decide now: either you leave him or you stop being stupid. Choose what pain you want to feel. Kisses. Go to sleep."

He's right. I hate it when he's right.

I think about responding, but I don't. I stay there, curled up on the couch, my phone dangling from my hand, like a ticking time bomb. I close my eyes. I try to remember what my life was like before him.

It was gray. It was monotonous. But he was mine. Now it's this colorful chaos that sparkles when it appears and fades when it disappears. And I stay here, sorting through the pieces.

The notification buzzes. I hold my breath. Is it him?

It's not.

It's Uber Eats, offering a discount on pizza. I really want pizza right now. Even more: I want it here, instead of pizza. The worst part? I know if he showed up, I'd open the door. And open it again.

I think about how I'll deal with him on Monday, when he appears out of nowhere, full of explanations. He'll tell me his phone battery died. That he was stuck in an endless meeting. That he thought about me all night.

I, naive, will pretend to believe him. And, worse yet, I will want to believe him. I will convince myself that I am special. That I am different. That he doesn't do this to anyone else.

I lie down on the couch. I cover my arm with the gray blanket. My body still smells of his perfume. I still feel the touch of his beard on my neck. It's ridiculous how a memory can be more powerful than reality.

I close my eyes. I imagine my father looking at me now. At my mother. I wish they knew. Me, the proper, independent daughter, a lawyer with a smiling photo on the firm's website. "Marília Marques, specialist in contracts, regulatory compliance, and crisis management." What they don't know is that the crisis is me.

I unlock my phone for the last time. No messages. No audio. No lame excuses. Not even a meager "good night." Nothing.

I laugh. Softly, almost unintentionally. Laughter is the only thing that still reminds me of who I am, or who I was before I became The Other.

When I finally fall asleep, I think of a phrase I read in an old book, I can't remember who wrote it: "Sometimes we hurt ourselves little by little, just to make sure we still feel something." Maybe that's it. Maybe I just want to feel.

Even if it hurts.

Even if I disappear.

Even if I come back. And when I come back, I'll open the door. Of course I will. Because I am Marília Marques: a senior lawyer, controlling, independent. And completely out of control.