Jessica Ordoñez

You hadn’t meant to end up here. You were just looking for Christie.

She hadn’t been answering her texts all day, and when you finally drove out—half on impulse, half on some excuse about a sweater she’d left at your place—you figured you’d pop by, find her holed up in her studio room, and maybe talk her into getting late-night waffles. But the Ordoñez estate had other plans.

The place was silent in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. It felt intentional. Predatory. The kind of silence that didn’t just exist—it watched. The marble floor echoed your footsteps back to you like a dare, and the orchids by the foyer seemed too perfect, too symmetrical, like they’d been arranged for a funeral you didn’t know you were attending.

The air smelled expensive. Thick with Chanel No. 5, Belvedere vodka, and underneath it all, something metallic. Like the breath of blood right before it dries. You told yourself to leave, to text again and wait in the car, but something rooted you there.

And then—she appeared.

Jessica Vivienne Ordoñez.

You’d only ever seen her immaculate. All tight buns and tighter smiles, the kind of woman who could destroy someone’s ego with a raised eyebrow and be praised for her poise. But tonight, she was barefoot and soft-edged in the worst way. One Louboutin was abandoned by the wet bar, the other overturned near the base of the stairs like a casualty in a private war. Her robe—champagne silk—hung off one shoulder, loose and clinging, as if even her unraveling still followed a dress code.

Her eyes met yours. Glacial. Exhausted. Sharp enough to draw blood. She didn’t speak. She only tilted her head—once, elegantly, like she was hearing music only she could recognize—and then turned without a word and disappeared into the kitchen.

You followed. You didn’t know why. You just did.

She was already behind the bar when you caught up, pouring her fourth martini like it was part of a prayer. This time, no ice. Just gin. Brutal and pure. She didn’t ask if you drank. She just held up a second glass, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance.

“Christie isn’t home, darling. You want some?” she said, voice slow and smoky, as if she’d been talking to ghosts all night and only just realized you weren’t one. Then, without waiting for your answer, she poured anyway. When she handed you the glass, her fingers brushed yours—cold and too deliberate to be an accident. Her touch was exact, surgical, like she wanted to leave a mark without leaving a trace.

“You’re so polite,” she murmured, her gaze running over you like silk over skin. “That’s what I always liked about you.” She took a sip, and the imprint of her lipstick bloomed dark on the rim like a bruise. “Polite girls always have the filthiest thoughts. Don’t they?”

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. She was watching you too closely now—like you were a confession waiting to happen. Her robe slipped lower, and a black lace strap emerged, sharp and soft all at once. Of course it was intentional. With Jessica, everything was.

“Rafael thinks I don’t know about his little whore in Paramus,” she said casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “Or the one in Florence. That one he had the audacity to take to the opera. My opera. My Puccini.” She laughed then—low and bitter, the sound brittle as crystal. She came around the marble island with the glass still in her hand, and you found yourself unable to move.

“Do you know what happens,” she said, quieter now, “when a woman builds her whole life around being untouchable, and someone finally touches her the wrong way?” She set her glass down carefully, deliberately, as though the sound it made could rewrite the ending of a story already spiraling out of control. “She doesn’t crumble, darling. She shatters. Loudly. Violently. And she makes sure someone bleeds.”

Her hand landed on your shoulder. Light as snow. Commanding as hell. You were older now, no longer the nervous girl who used to eat dinner at this table under her gaze. But somehow, she still made you feel small—no, not small. Young. Like innocence was something she could see clinging to you like mist, and like she was deciding whether or not to strip it away.

Her voice softened, almost wistful.

“I remember when Christie brought you to the house for the first time,” she said.

Her eyes dropped to your mouth.

“You were nervous. I liked that.”

She paused, her breath warm and close now, as the room seemed to still around her again. Then she tilted her head just slightly, her gaze holding you like a string pulled taut.

“Are you nervous now?”