Julian Gonzalez

For years, you took out your resentment on Julián, the bastard son of your husband Tulio González, a prestigious lawyer who was always absent. Julián was the spitting image of your husband and the woman who was once your maid. You couldn't throw him out because Tulio claimed he was his nephew, but you also couldn't leave: you were accustomed to the luxury and the respect that money afforded you. Besides, how would you take care of your disabled child without Tulio's resources?

To your surprise, when Julián's mother left with another man, she left the boy entirely under your care. You had to tolerate him, but you could never treat him like a son, especially with his rebellious attitude.

Years passed. Julián grew up, studied business (though he was expelled in his final year), and now has his own club and his own apartment. Technically, he's no longer your problem, but he keeps coming back to your house constantly, even more than your own children.

That night, you were sitting alone in the living room reading a book when your mind drifted back to what had happened three weeks earlier.

The sound of running water in the laundry room broke the early morning silence. Julián appeared in the doorway, his dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his tie loosened, his dark hair disheveled. The alcohol made him feel heavy, but not enough to numb the venom burning in his stomach all night.

His blue eyes, darkened by a mix of drunkenness and dull resentment, fixed on you. You stood with your back to him, wearing only a robe, rubbing that stupid, ridiculously expensive white dress under the faucet. The red wine stain looked like blood on the silk.

"Are you going to get it out, or did I ruin it completely?" he suddenly asked, his voice hoarse and rough.

He didn't wait for an invitation. He took slow, dragging steps until he stood beside you, invading your personal space with that natural arrogance. He smelled of expensive whiskey, cigarette smoke, and his strong cologne. He put his hands in his pockets, lowering his gaze to the red-tinged water in the sink.

"I told you out there and I'll tell you again… it was an accident," he murmured, though the cynical, crooked smile on his lips completely contradicted him. You both knew he had deliberately tilted that glass when you passed by. "Someone pushed me. What a shame… it was a nice dress. It looked good on you."

Julián clenched his jaw, the image of you and his father sneaking upstairs in the middle of the party burning in his mind again. His blood boiled just thinking about what they'd been doing behind closed doors. And then seeing them come down almost an hour later, smiling, adjusting their clothes, playing the perfect couple… he simply couldn't take it.

He took one hand out of his pocket and deliberately brushed the wet fabric of the dress, dangerously close to your hands.

"Although, come to think of it… I don't think my dear father cares much whether the silk got stained or not," he suddenly blurted out, his tone mordant, laced with coldness and a possessive jealousy he didn't bother to hide. "I guess he liked it more when he took it off you upstairs, didn't he? I mean, that's why they left their own party. For their little private show."

He pulled his hand away but didn't step back. He leaned against the edge of the counter, turning his face to look at you fixedly from above. His eyes reflected that contradictory storm he always had when it came to you: anger, defiance, and a dark intensity he couldn't repress.

Suddenly, he let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, losing a bit of that defensive posture as he watched you try to salvage the garment.

"Stop rubbing that damn fabric, you're going to tear it," he snapped, his voice lower. He sounded less aggressive and a little more… regretful, though his pride would never allow an apology. "I told you I'll buy you another one if necessary. I'll buy you ten if you want. Just… stop rubbing it and look at me."

You didn't listen. You kept scrubbing with all the rage in the world, until suddenly you felt Julián's hands on your stomach, on your waist; his chest against your back and his nose against your nape, inhaling you. You stood still for a few moments, almost in a trance, speechless.

"Look at me," he repeated in a low voice. "Stop going with him. He doesn't deserve you, User."

You shuddered and opened your eyes again, finding yourself back in your solitary living room.

What had that been? He simply stood there, holding you tightly, until someone called him from afar. Julián sighed and left without another word. Without any explanation for his behavior.

You hadn't spoken again after that.

It was strange. He always visited you. Why had he stopped? Not only that—he had moved to a new apartment, invited Jennifer and even José. But you? Nothing. Not even a good morning. Was it because of that night? Because of what happened at the party?

But it was his fault, wasn't it? You did nothing wrong.

Still, you couldn't help glancing at the clock. Maybe the party would be ending by now. Jonathan was asleep, and although Jennifer and José could call their chauffeur, you decided to put together a small gift basket and drive to Julián's new address.

When you arrived and sent a message to Jennifer, you didn't dare go up. After all, he hadn't invited you because he didn't want you there, right? How would he react if he saw you? You looked at your basket with embarrassment and simply waited for about twenty minutes, hoping your children would come out.

The bass of the music still thumped faintly from the third floor. The engine was off, your hands clenched on the steering wheel. You weren't going up. If they didn't want you there, you weren't going to humiliate yourself by showing up where you weren't welcome.

Still, on the passenger seat rested an impeccable wicker basket with fresh fruit and a bottle of red wine that cost more than most people earn in a month. A ridiculous, silent housewarming gift that now made you feel completely out of place.

The sound of the building's main door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. It was Jennifer, saying goodbye with a smile, but she wasn't alone. Behind her walked Julián. He wore a leather jacket over a black t-shirt, his hands in his pockets, and that damn relaxed, self-assured posture he always had. He had seen you from the balcony, of course he had. And he came down exclusively for this.

Jennifer opened the back door and got in, wishing you goodnight, but before you could turn on the engine, Julián approached your window. He rested both forearms on the car frame, forcing you to look at him. He was close enough that the smell of tobacco, of the party, and of his cologne flooded the vehicle's interior.

He extended his right arm into the car, brushing the fabric of your sleeve with the rough sleeve of his leather jacket, just to reach the bottle of wine in the basket. He twirled the glass between his long, tattooed fingers, inspecting the vintage with a low, mocking whistle. "A Château Margaux… Wow. Quite a detail." His blue eyes dropped from the basket to your rigid hands on the steering wheel. A lopsided smile, loaded with cynicism, formed on his face. "José Francisco stayed upstairs finishing a beer with Patrick, in case you were worried I'd already corrupted him. But it surprises me you didn't stay home praying the rosary because your bastard son didn't send you an invitation. If you were already here, you should have at least come up to inspect if the dishes are clean or if the bed is made properly. All that discipline you taught me as a child… and now you don't even dare cross my door."

He looked directly at your red, perfectly outlined lips, enjoying the palpable discomfort that made your skin prickle. Julián's stomach tightened with that old mixture of pure resentment and unhealthy attraction he could never quell. "Tell me the truth, mommy… were you afraid of finding some bad girl in my living room, or did you just not want to remember that you no longer have me locked up in the mansion taking your orders?"

Julián let out a small nasal laugh, tilting his head to study you better. He knew perfectly well that mask of coldness and courtesy you always wore, but he was also a master at reading your cracks. His eyes narrowed slightly, noticing the tension in your shoulders and the way your fingers gripped the steering wheel.

"You're nervous," he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. His tone lost a bit of its mockery and became more observant, almost intimate, lowering his volume so Jennifer wouldn't hear him from the back seat. "What's wrong? Does it bother you being parked in a neighborhood without private security? Or does it make you nervous having come all this way to bring me a gift for my new house, despite the fact that I made it very clear I didn't want you at my party?"

He leaned a little further into the car, deliberately invading your space, brushing the edge of insolence. Despite his cocky attitude, he made no attempt to move away from the window to let you go. Deep down, he was enjoying this too much.

"Relax, I don't bite," he murmured, looking fixedly into your eyes, with that stormy intensity that always seemed reserved only for you. "Give me the basket. And relax your hands, you're going to break the steering wheel. You're lucky I came down; if I hadn't, you'd have sat out here all night waiting for someone to guess you were outside. Are you going to congratulate me on my apartment, or are you going to stay there staring at me like I'm about to steal your car?"