Chapter 4 Broken Symmetry

MERCEDES

I press my forehead against the cold mirror of the train bathroom. The faucet drips—a dull, steady rhythm that drills into my temples. I catch my reflection. The pallor of my cheeks makes my burgundy lipstick look stark, almost like an open gash across my face.

Get a grip, Mercedes. It was an accident. Just a sudden lurch of the train.

But my body doesn't care about physics. I can still feel the heat of her fingers on my thigh, as if the fabric of my trousers simply dissolved the second she touched me.

I press my right hand to the back of my neck, trying to cool my burning skin, while my left hand grips the gold cross at my chest. I squeeze the metal until the sharp edge grounds me in some semblance of reality.

I have to go back out there. I can't hide in here like a terrified twenty-year-old. I am the department chair. I am Dr. Almeda.

I step out of the bathroom, spine rigid, chin high.

My strides down the aisle are measured, even though the floor feels like it's tilting beneath my feet.

When I slide open the glass door to our compartment, Claudia is sitting exactly as I left her: huddled against the window, her hands knotted in her lap, eyes locked on the fog rolling over the Castilian fields.

She straightens up the second I walk in. Her eyes are so wide, so full of pure, unadulterated distress that my stomach turns.

"Dr. Almeda..." she starts, her voice barely a whisper. "I am so sorry. The train lurched and I... I didn't mean to—"

"That's enough, Claudia," I cut her off. My tone is surgical. I sit down and immediately cross my legs, putting a physical barrier between us. "There’s no need to grovel over a bump in the tracks. The train jolted. End of story."

"But you went so pale... I thought I hurt you. Or offended you."

"You didn't hurt me," I lie, fixing my eyes on my notes to avoid hers. "And I am not so easily offended. I simply... dislike clumsiness. Let's get back to work. We have forty minutes until we reach Salamanca, and I still haven't seen your analysis on free will."

She gives a subdued nod, but the silence that settles over us isn't the same as before. This isn't the quiet hush of studying; it's an unbridgeable chasm. It's heavy, thick with a static electricity that makes it impossible for me to focus on a single word on the page.

CLAUDIA

The air in the compartment has gotten so thick I can barely breathe.

Mercedes pretends to read my notes, staring at the pages with a forced, artificial focus, but I know she hasn’t actually turned a page in fifteen minutes.

Her profile, outlined against the fogged glass, looks like a stone saint: beautiful, distant, and completely unforgiving.

Why did she react like that? It completely throws me. I know she’s a devout San Griselmo conservative, obsessed with appearances, but she bolted like I was some kind of monster. It was just a stumble. My hand landed on her leg so I wouldn’t smash my face into the table.

And yet, whenever I close my eyes, my brain loops those three seconds of paralysis. Her thigh had been tense, firm, and shockingly warm under my hand. My fingertips still hum with a strange, lingering heat—a tingling I’ve never felt before.

When the intercom finally announces our arrival in Salamanca, the relief is staggering.

We step onto the platform under a freezing violet sky that’s rapidly bruising into night.

The air smells like damp earth, ancient stone, and woodsmoke.

We share a cab in dead silence. I stare out the window, mesmerized by the monumental golden-stone buildings glowing under the dim streetlights.

Mercedes keeps her eyes locked dead ahead, as if the cab driver or the windshield demand her full academic scrutiny.

The taxi drops us off in front of the hotel, a converted sandstone palace near the Plaza de Anaya. The lobby has vaulted ceilings, dark wooden beams, and a comforting scent of beeswax and lavender.

"Dr. Almeda, what an honor to have you with us again," the receptionist says. He’s an older man who greets Mercedes with an almost ecclesiastical bow. "We have your reservations ready. Rooms 302 and 304."

Mercedes gives a graceful nod. She takes her heavy brass key and hands me mine, careful not to let our fingers brush.

"Go upstairs and unpack, Claudia," she orders.

The professor's voice is back, instantly rebuilding the wall between us.

"Meet me in the lobby at eight-thirty. The dean and several of the conference speakers are expecting us for a private dinner in the restaurant. It’s an important meeting. Dress appropriately."

"Yes, Dr. I'll be there."

We ride the wrought-iron elevator in agonizing silence.

My eyes flick sideways, catching her neckline.

The gold cross glints under the dim elevator bulb.

I feel a desperate, stupid need to say something—anything to break the ice—but her clenched jaw tells me that any word I say will be used against me.

MERCEDES

Room 302 is stark, possessed of an austere elegance that I appreciate. The walls are papered in deep maroon, and the arched window looks straight out at the towers of the Clerecía, silhouetted against the night sky like stone giants.

I shut the heavy wooden door and slide the deadbolt into place.

Leaning back against the solid wood, I let out a long, shaky breath.

I just need to breathe. I need to be alone.

But the peace doesn't even last a full minute.

The interior walls aren't nearly as thick as the exterior stone.

Through the plaster, I can hear the muffled thud of quick footsteps, the sharp click of a suitcase unlatching, and a soft, absentminded humming.

It's her. She's right on the other side.

I stand completely still, listening to her exist through the wall.

The sound of the water running in her bathroom feels so violently intimate it makes my skin burn.

Forcing myself away from the door, I walk to the closet to lay out my clothes for dinner.

I pull out a black tailored suit and a high-necked white silk blouse.

No cleavage. No embellishments. Absolute sobriety.

I watch myself in the mirror as I button the blouse. When I reach my collar, I lift the gold cross so it rests over the silk. It’s my coat of arms. A physical reminder of who I am, and to whom my soul belongs.

Lord, give me the strength to get through tonight. Don't let me falter in front of my peers. And please, don't let her see me unravel.

CLAUDIA

"...yeah, Javi, I swear. It's like I'm suddenly invisible, or a pariah. She didn't say a single word to me during the entire cab ride," I say, pinning my phone between my ear and my shoulder as I dig through my suitcase for the only formal dress I brought.

On the other end of the line, there’s the faint, rapid-fire sound of a video game and Javi’s distracted voice.

"I told you, Clau. The woman’s so uptight.

You always overthink this academic crap.

She’s probably just stressing over her speech tomorrow and you’re making it about the train.

Just ignore her, seriously. Play the good student, do your part, and we’ll go out when you get back to Madrid.

I miss you, by the way. Pizza isn't the same without you. "

I stare at the black dress lying on the bed. It’s a simple knit that clings to my body naturally, with a boat neckline that exposes my collarbones. It’s elegant enough, but I don't know if it meets the strict standards of San Griselmo.

"I miss you too, Javi," I reply, though my own voice sounds hollow, almost fake. I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror. "I have to go. I’m meeting the speakers for dinner in ten minutes."

"Alright, babe. Have fun with the dinosaurs. Call me tomorrow. Love you."

I hang up and stare at the dark screen. Javi is a good guy, he’s my boyfriend, but his words feel so empty right now.

Completely disconnected from the storm brewing inside my head.

He thinks Mercedes is just some "bitter old woman," but I know that's not it. There’s something else hiding in those gray eyes.

A tension that pulls me in like a magnet.

It makes me want to unravel her. It makes me want her to look at me with that same scorching intensity again—even if it terrifies me.

I slip into the black dress, step into a pair of low heels, and sweep my hair up into a high ponytail, leaving a few loose strands to frame my face. A quick swipe of subtle lip gloss and I'm ready.

As I step out into the hallway, the door to 302 clicks open at the exact same moment.

Mercedes steps into the corridor. She’s wearing a black suit that looks custom-tailored, an immaculate white blouse buttoned right up to her throat, and that gold cross gleaming against her chest.

The moment she sees me, she stops dead in her tracks.

Her gray eyes travel slowly down the line of my bare neck, tracing the way the black knit falls across my hips. I watch her pupils dilate for one infinitesimal second before her icy mask slams back into place.

"Good evening, Doctor," I say, offering a tentative smile. My stupid heart does a flip in my chest. "Is this appropriate?"

Mercedes swallows. I catch the subtle bob of her throat.

"It's... acceptable, Claudia," she replies, her voice dropping a fraction lower, a little rougher than usual. "Let's go. We shouldn't keep the dean waiting."

She turns away sharply, but as she passes, I catch the scent of orange blossom—a clean, intoxicating trail that follows me all the way down the creaking wooden hallway.