Chapter 1 The day I became the other

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.