Jelly Love

The ambient music of the Luna spa barely played over the hum of the electric lathes. A sweet scent of almond cream and fresh polish filled the air, while the warm light caressed every perfectly clean corner, every padded booth, every manicure station. It was a Tuesday like any other. Or at least, it seemed that way.

Aitana was finishing sealing the shine on jelly nails in pastel pink tones, with delicate white lines forming miniature butterflies. The style was trending on TikTok, and her clients requested it like a social pass. It was her personal touch. Her signature.

"These nails are literally viral," commented the girl in front of her, a fashion influencer with daily stories and rotating boyfriends. "Nobody does the details like you do, Aitana. What magical fingers you have."

"Thank you, love," Aitana replied with a smile. She kept her voice soft, professional. But inside, the compliment made her float a little. Her world was nails, tiny art, control. She felt safe there.

Until the door exploded.

"How dare you go out with my boyfriend?!"

The scream tore through the air like a knife. Every customer and employee turned in unison. Aitana froze, file raised, heart leaping treacherously.

The woman who had just burst in was a storm of black eyes and pure rage. Tall, with perfectly straight hair, a model's face... but in ruins. Her makeup seemed intact, but her emotions weren't.

"You!" She pointed at her as if invoking a curse. "You're Aitana, aren't you?!"

"Who are you?" Aitana managed to say, her voice lower than she would have liked.

"Don't play dumb!" The woman moved between the manicure stations like a hurricane on wheels. Did you think I wouldn't notice?! He posted a picture of you, with your damn sweet little girl nails!

She shoved her phone in his face. A picture of two hands holding each other. His, with his classic black watch. Hers-his!-with the design he'd just replicated a few minutes ago. His signature. His style. Proof.

Aitana's internal monologue:

It can't be. Why did she post that? I asked her not to. I told her no... God. What did I do? What did I do?

"You slept with him? Tell me now! DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!" the woman screamed, her voice shaking. Her eyes filled with tears, but they didn't make her any less fierce. "I've been with him for four years, four! Who the fuck do you think you are?!"

The silence was total. Even the hairdryers seemed to be off.

"I... I didn't know he had a girlfriend." "I swear," Aitana said, her voice now a broken whisper. "He told me he was single."

"Liar! You're a hypocrite! You knew it!" The woman was now crying, making no attempt to hide it. "All chicks like you act so naive. You act so sweet and get into other people's beds!"

"Enough!" one of the receptionists timidly chimed in.

But the woman didn't stop. She leaned over Aitana's desk, barely a couple of inches between their faces.

"You know what? I hope he does to you the same thing he did to me. I hope he breaks your heart and leaves you crying like an idiot in a bathroom stall!" Because that's what he does. That's what he is."

Aitana swallowed hard.

Internal monologue:

I can't breathe. Everyone's looking at me. This is a nightmare. How did I get into this? It was just a date. Just a text. Just a kiss.

The spa manager appeared instantly, walking quickly on her block heels.

"Miss, this is unacceptable. You need to leave right now."

"NO!" the woman yelled, whipping around. "She should leave! Her! That traitor! Steal more of her boyfriends, bitch! Let's see how long you last!"

And before anyone could do anything, she grabbed a bottle of fuchsia nail polish and threw it to the floor. The glass shattered. A scream escaped from among the customers.

"Enough! SECURITY!" the manager yelled.

Two workers from the neighboring gym rushed in and escorted the woman out, still shouting expletives that faded behind the door.

Silence.

Aitana was trembling. The file had fallen from her hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to scream, disappear, fall apart. The manager turned to her, her jaw clenched.

"I want to see you in my office when you're done with this client. This can't happen again. It's a formal warning, Aitana. One more, and you're out."

Aitana just nodded, unable to speak. Her throat was a lump.

The client, who still had one hand inside the UV lamp, slowly removed her fingers.

"Wow. That was... intense."

Aitana stood up without a word. She went straight to the bathroom. She closed the door. She leaned against the sink.

And burst into tears.

It wasn't controlled or dignified tears. It was ugly tears, shaky, snotty, angry, and ashamed.

Final monologue:

What am I doing? What am I doing with my life? I just wanted to paint nails. I just wanted to create beauty. And now... now I'm the other one. The idiot.

The manicurist with a broken heart and a tarnished reputation. What do I do now?

She looked in the mirror, her cheeks soaked, her nose red.

"I swear it won't happen again," she whispered.

But something inside her knew that was a broken promise even before she uttered it.

The silence that reigned in the salon that morning was as thick as the top coat they used to encapsulate crystals in gel nails. Aitana entered the spa with her head down, her breath bated, as if every step on the polished floor were a provocation to misfortune.

The reception area, always filled with ambient music and laughter in the background, now seemed like a museum of rumors. As soon as she walked through the door, she felt it: the glances, the raised eyebrows, the whispers behind the cups of tea. Even the usual scent of lavender and acetone seemed to judge her.

"Is everything okay?" Lina, her tablemate, asked in a low tone and with an awkward smile.

Aitana pretended to be searching for something among her supplies.

"Yes. I just want to... work."

Lie. She wanted to disappear.

Not even 14 hours had passed since a woman, completely out of her mind, yelled to the entire spa that she had slept with her boyfriend. And even though there was no proof... What more proof did they want than a photo on social media showing Aitana's hands-her nails, her artist's stamp-intertwined with Iker's?

He had uploaded the photo with the caption:

"There are designs that are not forgotten."

And everyone understood. The desperate client. The colleagues. And the worst: the manager.

"Aitana, to the office, please," said Mónica from the frosted-glass hallway.

That "please" lacked a shred of courtesy.

The warning

Mónica was waiting for her with her hands folded on her white desk, not a drop out of place. She wore her classic bun hairstyle and impeccable French manicure, as if elegance were part of her uniform.

"Sit down," she said, without looking her in the eyes. "I don't want to drag this out."

Aitana sat down. Her heart pounded as if glitter was running through her veins, trembling with every unspoken word. "Yesterday was embarrassing," Monica began bluntly. "Not just for you. For all of us. Clients don't come here to watch soap opera scandals."

"I didn't do anything. She came in screaming..."

"And you didn't stop her. You didn't know how to handle the situation. Aitana, you know the type of clientele we deal with. Women with thousands of followers. Brand ambassadors. Influencers. Image is everything here."

Silence. Aitana clenched her hands between her legs.

"I'm not telling you not to fall in love," Monica continued, now with a hint of compassion in her voice. "Just don't bring your personal problems here. This place is your showcase. Your seal of approval. If this happens again... I'll have no choice but to let you go."

The blow didn't come with shouts or threats. It was clean. Precise. Like a poorly filed nail that hurts all day.

" "Understood?"

"Yes..." Aitana murmured.

She left without another word. She walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and looked in the mirror. Her reflection looked at her with disappointment.

"How did we get to this?" she wondered.

She sat down on the toilet lid. Tears began to fall silently, soaking the white apron with her name embroidered in pink.

"So much effort... to end up being 'the other girl' in a story that doesn't even belong to me."

"Why did you post that photo, Iker? For what?"

"To provoke her? To mark me?"

She cried silently until she heard the door open. She cleaned herself up quickly. No weaknesses in front of the team.

Interlude – The spa, after the scandal

Back at her station, she tried to act as if nothing had happened. She put on her pink latex gloves. She put on some background music on her tablet: soft pop, the usual. But the clients noticed her expression, her posture. It wasn't the same Aitana.

"Hey... are you going to be okay for my appointment tomorrow?" a client texted her on WhatsApp, with worried emojis.

Another canceled without explanation.

And that hurt more than the screams from the day before. Her reputation was starting to crack like poorly cured nail polish.

Lina approached her with a coffee.

"You don't have to talk if you don't want to, okay?"

Aitana nodded, forcing a smile.

"I have to keep going. I have to shine. If I let this get me down... everything I've built will go to hell."

Flashback – The Beginning with Iker

It all started at last year's spring event. One of those local brand shows where makeup, extensions, and nails became high-level art.

Aitana had been invited as an emerging talent. Iker was one of the organizers. He wore a tight black shirt, a killer smile, and the attitude of a Netflix producer. Nothing about him seemed certain... and yet, everything about him seemed addictive.

"Are you the one who does those aurora borealis nails?" he asked, pointing to a sample of multicolored mirror nails on her stand.

"Aurora nails, cat eyes, thermal nails... whatever you want," she replied, smiling, unaware that this man would be the beginning of her emotional turmoil.

"I love the way you work. Do you know that many of my girls might need them for their events?"

"Your girls?"

"I have an agency. Models, hosts, influencers. Sometimes I need someone to prepare them in record time for campaigns."

That's how it started.

With a business conversation. With him recommending clients. With her giving him special discounts. With glances that lasted a little longer than they should.

Until one day, they were alone in the spa after hours.

"Why do you do this?" he asked her as she cleaned her brushes.

"Because it makes me feel useful. Creative. Because with well-cared-for hands, many women dare to do things they wouldn't before."

"And you? What would you dare to do... if you weren't afraid?"

He didn't kiss her that night. But he left her thinking for days.

Present – ​​Return to Her Table

Back in her chair, Aitana tried to focus on the products. She prepared a tray with the new jelly shades, the ones that changed color based on body temperature. The clients loved them because they were like modern mood rings.

She cleaned the tools, disinfected, and organized the test tips. Every gesture, every step, like a ritual to keep from falling apart.

"Today I have a girl from your agency," Lina whispered.

"Iker's?"

"Yes. A new one. She says she wants "dangerous, but sexy nails." Literally."

Aitana closed her eyes.

"All I want is for them not to talk about him. For his name not to appear even once more today."

But that was her world. And he had infiltrated every corner. There was no way around it.

The city didn't sleep that night. It was one of those evenings when the sky seemed lower, as if the stars had gathered to look down from above, as the artificial lights competed for attention. On the terrace of the Magnolia Hotel, everything was ready for the "Nail & Glow Experience," an exclusive event where aesthetics mingled with social issues, with marketing, and with the desire to show off.

Aitana held her briefcase like someone carrying a treasure. She walked steadily between models who laughed without fully opening their mouths and stylists who shouted shade names as if they were secret cocktails. Aitana didn't use well-known brands or have a contract with any cosmetics company, but her designs were starting to make the rounds in the WhatsApp groups of the most sought-after promoters.

"This looks like another planet," she murmured, her eyes wandering among the intergalactic decor: floating spheres, nebula projections, and lights that flickered like the heartbeats of stars. Her station was downtown, right in front of the neon mural that read "HANDS THAT TALK, NAILS THAT SCREAM."

And she certainly screamed with her designs.

She set up her little throne of nail polish: pink jelly, chameleon pigments, gel with reflective particles, and a full range of milky base shades. Everything was arranged on a holographic fabric that gave the illusion of floating in a liquid galaxy.

The first to approach were two tall girls in vinyl dresses and transparent platform heels.

"Are you the famous Aitana?" one of them asked, with a semi-Chilean accent and a celebrity attitude.

"Depends on who's asking," Aitana replied, smiling as she motioned for her to sit down.

"I want you to make something viral for me. When I upload the reel, it'll have 100,000 likes."

"So, let me see your hands," she said, and as she touched them, Aitana felt that electricity that always ran through her skin when something good was about to happen.

The jelly nails took shape. A gradient in lilac and peach tones with details encapsulated in iridescent paper. Aitana applied each brushstroke as if she were composing music. No one spoke while she worked. All she could hear was the sound of the lathe, the clicks of cell phones, and the quiet comments of other girls who looked on with envy.

"Look at those cuticles! They're perfect, they look like not even a razor has touched them," one promoter whispered to another.

"She's the new one. The one who works at the "Luna" spa. She has the hands of a surgeon."

Aitana pretended not to hear, but deep down, every compliment was like a glass of champagne straight to her self-esteem.

That was when she felt it.

That look. That presence.

He didn't walk. He glided. As if people were making way for him without him even needing to.

Iker.

Tall. Elegant. With a black shirt slightly open at the chest, revealing a gold chain. His well-groomed stubble and that "I know exactly who I am and what I'm doing" air. A magnet.

He stopped in front of her.

"Are you Aitana?"

She didn't even look at him immediately. She finished setting the gel with a UV lamp before looking up. When she did, her eyes met his. A second was enough for everything around her to become irrelevant.

"And who are you? Some kind of cuticle expert?" he said with a half smile.

"No, but I know talent when I see it. I'm Iker. I run Glow Agency, the promoters you're working with today."

Aitana nodded without letting her guard down.

"Nice to meet you. I've already worked with three of your girls. They have expensive tastes and damaged nails." But that can be fixed.

"I've heard of you," he replied. "A manicurist with attitude. I like it."

"And I like being respected for my work, not for how I look."

"What if I like both?"

She remained silent. She could have answered him with something sarcastic, but she chose to hold his gaze. The tension was thick, as if the air had thickened between them.

"Do you have an open schedule this week?" he asked. "I'm organizing a campaign for a new group of promoters. I want you to do their nails. Something sexy, modern, but not vulgar."

"It depends. How much do they pay?"

"Enough to make it worth your time. And maybe, also, enough to give me one of those smiles of yours."

Claudia, who was a few feet away, looked at them with wide eyes. As soon as Iker moved away to talk to one of his models, she ran over to Aitana.

"Do you know who that is?! Iker Valverde! The Iker! Owner of the most sought-after agency in the city. He's out there with half his Instagram and the other half he wants. And he just invited you to work with him!"

Aitana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She wanted to appear calm, but her heart was pounding like it was about to explode beneath her white coat.

"He just offered me a job."

"Yes, a job and something else... Look at the way he looked at you. As if you were a work of art covered in enamel."

"What if he just wants to use me?" Aitana whispered, suddenly unsure.

"Then let him use you well."

But you're the one in charge.

Aitana looked at her desk. The shine of her freshly done nails. Her tools were lined up. Her brushes were in order. And in the middle of it all... Iker's card.

She took it between her fingers. The name "Iker Valverde" was engraved in matte gold on a black background. On the back, only a phone number.

"A man who doesn't put his Instagram on his card... he's already a mystery," she murmured.

That night, when she got home, she sat in front of the mirror and unpacked her nail polish case. One by one, she cleaned them. The pink jelly, the velvet top coat, the 01 liner brush. Everything had to be perfect. On the outside, she looked like any other working girl. But inside, she felt butterflies dressed in sequins fluttering in her stomach.

And although she didn't know it then, that night she hadn't just met a man.

She had met the part of her that could lose her mind... for love.