Chapter 16: The Soap and the Sponge
The dream dissolved the moment Jimena opened her eyes.
For a disorienting second, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling above her was wrong—too high, too shadowed, with the faintest glimmer of a chandelier catching the first gray light of dawn. Then the weight around her waist registered, solid and warm, and the previous night crashed back in a flood of sensation.
The bath. The sponge. Silvia's hands on her breasts, lifting them, washing beneath them with such slow deliberation that Jimena had forgotten how to breathe. The way Silvia had asked her to stand, water sluicing down her body in rivulets, and the feel of those fingers tracing the curve of her bottom as if memorizing its shape.
Jimena lay perfectly still, her heart hammering so loudly she was certain it would wake the woman beside her.
Silvia's arm was draped across her stomach, palm flat against the thin silk of the borrowed nightgown. Her breathing was deep and even, the soft whistle of air through slightly parted lips. In sleep, her face looked different—less severe, the permanent furrow between her brows smoothed away. Almost gentle.
Jimena's mouth was dry. She needed water. She needed to pee. She needed to stop thinking about the way her nipples had tightened under Silvia's touch, about the heat that had pooled low in her belly when those fingers had lingered.
You must be kept immaculate.
The words echoed in her skull. Immaculate. Like a thing. Like a possession to be polished and maintained.
And yet.
Jimena shifted slightly, trying to ease out from under Silvia's arm without waking her. The movement made the silk nightgown slide against her skin, and she became acutely aware of how little she was wearing. Silvia had given her the gown after the bath, holding it open like a dressing room attendant, watching with undisguised appreciation as Jimena had slipped her arms through the straps and let the fabric fall over her damp body.
"There," Silvia had said, smoothing the gown over Jimena's shoulders. "Much better than those ratty pajamas you brought from the group home."
Jimena had wanted to protest—she liked her pajamas, the faded flannel ones with the little cartoon cats—but the words had died in her throat. She'd learned, over the past week, that Silvia didn't like being contradicted. Not about small things. Not about anything.
Now, in the gray dawn, Jimena finally managed to slide out from under the older woman's arm. She moved inch by inch, holding her breath, until her feet touched the cold floor. The carpet was thick and plush, but the chill still bit through her toes.
She padded toward the bathroom, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard she'd discovered on her second night here. The door was heavy—solid oak, she guessed, though she didn't know much about wood—and she closed it behind her with a soft click.
The bathroom was still humid from the night before. The candles had burned down to stubs, their wax pooled in silver trays shaped like roses. The tub was empty now, but the air still smelled of jasmine and something muskier beneath it, like the ghost of Silvia's perfume.
Jimena sat on the toilet and put her head in her hands.
What is happening to me?
She'd asked herself that question every night this week, lying rigid in Silvia's bed while the older woman's hands found new places to touch, new ways to claim. At first, it had been just an arm around her waist—possessive but almost maternal. Then Silvia had started pulling her closer, until Jimena's back was pressed against the older woman's soft stomach, until she could feel every breath, every heartbeat.
Two nights ago, Silvia's hand had drifted up under her shirt. Jimena had frozen, every muscle locked, as those fingers had traced the undersides of her breasts with an almost reverent slowness.
"You have beautiful skin," Silvia had whispered into her hair. "Like cream. Like something precious."
Jimena hadn't known what to say. So she'd said nothing.
Last night, the bath. Tonight—
She didn't want to think about tonight.
Jimena peed, washed her hands, and stared at herself in the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her with wide, frightened eyes. Her curls were a tangled mess, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly swollen from where she'd been biting them. The nightgown—pale pink silk, so sheer she could see the dark circles of her nipples through it—clung to every curve.
She looked like a doll. Like something dressed up and posed by someone else's hands.
This is where you belong now, my darling.
Was that true? Did she belong here, in this crimson velvet mausoleum, with a woman who touched her in ways that made her stomach twist with something between fear and wanting?
The question was too big. Too heavy. Jimena pushed it away and splashed cold water on her face instead.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Silvia was awake.
The older woman was propped against the pillows, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, reading glasses perched on her nose. She was scrolling through something on her phone, but she looked up the moment Jimena appeared, and her face softened into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Good morning, darling. You're up early."
"I needed to use the bathroom." Jimena hovered in the doorway, unsure whether to come closer or stay where she was.
"Come here." Silvia patted the bed beside her. "Don't hover like a frightened rabbit."
Jimena obeyed. She always obeyed. That was the problem, wasn't it? She'd been obeying her whole life—first the adults at the group home, then the social workers, then Silvia. She didn't know how to do anything else.
She climbed back into the massive bed, and Silvia immediately pulled her close, arranging Jimena's body against her own like a child positioning a stuffed animal. Jimena's head ended up on Silvia's shoulder, her hand trapped between them, her leg draped over Silvia's thigh.
"There," Silvia murmured, stroking Jimena's hair. "That's better."
"I'm sorry I woke you."
"You didn't. I've been awake for an hour." Silvia's fingers traced the shell of Jimena's ear, then down the curve of her neck. "I like watching you sleep. You look so peaceful. So innocent."
Jimena's skin prickled. "I'm not—I mean, I'm not that innocent."
Silvia laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Oh, darling. You have no idea."
The fingers continued their exploration, drifting down to Jimena's collarbone, then lower. Jimena's breath caught as Silvia's palm settled over her breast, the silk nightgown doing nothing to dull the heat of that touch. Through the thin fabric, Jimena could feel her own nipple hardening, could feel the shameful rush of warmth spreading through her chest.
"You're so responsive," Silvia said softly. "I noticed that last night. The way your body reacts to me."
Jimena wanted to deny it. Wanted to pull away. But her muscles wouldn't cooperate. She lay there, frozen, as Silvia's thumb began to circle her nipple with slow, deliberate pressure.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Silvia continued, her voice a hypnotic murmur. "Your body knows what it needs. It's just your mind that's still catching up."
"That's not—" Jimena's voice cracked. "I don't—"
"Shh." Silvia's thumb pressed harder, and Jimena's sentence dissolved into a shaky exhale. "Don't argue with me, darling. You'll only make yourself miserable."
The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that Silvia was right. Jimena could feel her hips shifting, pressing closer, seeking something she didn't have words for. Her body was betraying her, responding to Silvia's touch with an eagerness that made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
I don't want this, she told herself. I don't.
But her nipple was hard as a pebble against Silvia's palm, and there was a damp ache between her legs, and when Silvia leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, Jimena had to bite her lip to keep from making a sound.
"There's my good girl," Silvia whispered.
Jimena closed her eyes. The pet name should have felt demeaning, but instead it settled over her like a blanket, warm and heavy and stifling.
"I have some calls to make this morning," Silvia said, withdrawing her hand. Jimena's body sagged with a relief so profound it was almost painful. "You can have breakfast in the kitchen—tell Mrs. Patterson I said you could have the good jam, not the cheap stuff."
"Yes, Silvia."
"And afterward, I want you to organize my bookshelves in the study. They've gotten terribly disorganized."
"Yes, Silvia."
Silvia tilted Jimena's chin up, forcing eye contact. "You're very agreeable this morning. It suits you."
Jimena didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
Silvia kissed her forehead again—lingering this time, her lips warm and dry against Jimena's skin—and then released her. "Go on, then. I'll see you at lunch."
Jimena slid out of bed, her legs unsteady. She was halfway to the door when Silvia's voice stopped her.
"Oh, and Jimena?"
She turned. "Yes?"
Silvia was watching her with that same unreadable expression from the night before, the one that made Jimena feel like a butterfly pinned to a board. "You can keep the nightgown. It looks lovely on you."
Jimena nodded, not trusting her voice.
She fled to the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the marble floor, and didn't stop until she reached the guest bathroom at the end of the corridor—the one Silvia never used, the one that still smelled like the lemon-scented cleaner Mrs. Patterson favored.
She locked the door behind her and slid down to the floor, her back against the cold tile, and tried very hard not to cry.
This is where you belong now, my darling.
Maybe it was true. Maybe she did belong here, in this beautiful, suffocating house, with a woman who touched her like she owned her and looked at her like she was something to be devoured.
Maybe this was all she deserved.
Jimena pressed her palms against her eyes and breathed.Out. Out. The way the counselors at the group home had taught her, back when she'd still believed that things would get better.
They hadn't gotten better. They'd just gotten different.
After a long moment, she stood up, splashed water on her face again, and went to find Mrs. Patterson.
The kitchen was bright with morning light, the windows thrown open to let in the cool autumn air. Mrs. Patterson—a round, cheerful woman in her sixties who had been with Silvia for nearly twenty years—was at the stove, flipping pancakes with practiced efficiency.
"Morning, dear," she said without turning around. "Sleep well?"
"Fine," Jimena lied.
"There's coffee in the press, and the jam's in the fridge. Silvia called down—said you could have the good stuff."Mrs. Patterson shot her a knowing look. "You must be in her good graces."
Jimena didn't know how to respond to that, so she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the massive kitchen island. The stool was too high; her feet dangled above the floor like a child's.
"Don't look so glum," Mrs. Patterson said, sliding a plate of pancakes in front of her. "You've landed in a good spot. Silvia's not easy, I know, but she's fair. And she clearly adores you."
Adores. The word made Jimena's stomach turn. She pushed her pancakes around with her fork, not hungry.
"She talks about you all the time, you know," Mrs. Patterson continued, oblivious to Jimena's discomfort. "Ever since you got here. 'Jimena did this, Jimena said that.' I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly."
Jimena took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and hot and grounding. "How long have you worked for her?"
"Going on twenty-two years now."Mrs. Patterson leaned against the counter, her expression softening. "I've seen a lot of people come and go. But you're different. She's different with you."
"Different how?"
"Happier."Mrs. Patterson shrugged. "More alive. Like she's got something to look forward to."
Jimena didn't know what to do with that information. She finished her coffee in silence, ate three bites of pancake to be polite, and excused herself to go organize the bookshelves.
The study was on the second floor, a long, narrow room lined floor-to-ceiling with books. The air smelled of old paper and leather, and the single window at the far end let in a weak, watery light. Jimena had been in here before—she'd dusted the shelves on her second day—but she hadn't really looked at the books.
Now, she ran her fingers along the spines, reading titles. Philosophy. History. A lot of poetry. Some novels, though they looked untouched, their spines uncracked. The books Silvia actually read were the ones with worn edges and dog-eared pages—mostly biographies, Jimena noticed. And a whole shelf of books about psychology.
She pulled one down: The Psychology of Attachment. The spine was broken, the pages filled with cramped, illegible notes in Silvia's handwriting. Jimena flipped through it, catching fragments: anxious-avoidant... need for control... transference...
She put it back.
The next shelf held photo albums. Jimena hesitated—these weren't books, and Silvia had said to organize the bookshelves—but curiosity won. She pulled one down and opened it.
The photos were old, faded, the colors washed out in that way that old film gets. Silvia as a young woman, maybe thirty or thirty-five, standing in front of a building Jimena didn't recognize. Silvia as a child, solemn-faced, holding hands with a woman who must have been her mother. Silvia at what looked like a wedding, wearing a lavender dress, her expression tight and unhappy.
And then, toward the back of the album, a section that made Jimena's breath catch.
Photographs of herself.
Jimena at the group home, maybe fourteen, in a school uniform. Jimena at sixteen, sitting on a bench in a park she didn't remember visiting. Jimena at seventeen, laughing at something, her head thrown back, her curls a wild halo around her face.
She didn't remember anyone taking these. She didn't remember anyone being there.
The album was dated on the inside cover—six years ago. Silvia had been watching her for six years.
Jimena's hands were shaking. She closed the album and shoved it back onto the shelf, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
Six years. Silvia had been watching her for six years.
I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly, Mrs.Patterson had said.
But it hadn't been quick at all. It had been years in the making. Jimena was just the last to know.
She stumbled out of the study, her vision blurry, and made it to her old bedroom—the guest room she'd slept in for the first three nights—before her legs gave out. She sank onto the bed, the one she no longer slept in, and stared at the wall.
This is where you belong now.
Jimena had thought she'd been chosen. Rescued. Plucked from obscurity by a wealthy woman who saw something special in her.
But she hadn't been rescued. She'd been selected.
The door opened. Jimena didn't turn around.
"I thought I might find you here." Silvia's voice was calm, unhurried. "Mrs. Patterson said you left the kitchen in a hurry."
Jimena didn't respond.
The bed dipped as Silvia sat down beside her. "You found the album."
It wasn't a question.
"Why?" Jimena's voice was barely a whisper. "Why were you watching me?"
Silvia was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost gentle. "Because I saw you, Jimena. At a fundraiser for the children's home—you were fifteen, serving drinks, and you had this look on your face. This lost, searching look. Like you were waiting for someone to find you."
"I don't remember that."
"You wouldn't. You were just a child." Silvia reached out, tucking a curl behind Jimena's ear. "But I remembered. I've been remembering for six years."
"That's..." Jimena shook her head. "That's not normal."
"Maybe not." Silvia's fingers traced the curve of Jimena's jaw. "But I'm not a normal woman. And you're not a normal girl."
Jimena finally turned to look at her. Silvia's face was unreadable—that same mask of calm possession she always wore. But there was something beneath it, something hungry and desperate, that made Jimena's skin crawl.
"I don't know what you want from me," Jimena said.
"Yes, you do." Silvia's thumb brushed over Jimena's lower lip. "You've known since the first night you slept in my bed."
The touch was gentle. Almost tender. And yet Jimena felt like she was drowning.
"I'll tell you a secret," Silvia murmured, leaning closer. "I've been alone my whole life. I never wanted anyone—not really. Not until you."
Her lips brushed Jimena's cheek, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth.
"I know this is strange for you. I know you're confused. But you'll understand, in time. You'll see that this is the best thing that's ever happened to you."
Jimena's breath hitched. "How do you know?"
Silvia smiled—a real smile, this time, small and private and terrifying. "Because I know you better than you know yourself."
She kissed Jimena then. Soft and slow and claiming, her lips parting Jimena's with a gentleness that belied the iron grip of her hand on Jimena's thigh.
And Jimena—foolish, lost, obedient Jimena—kissed her back.
She didn't know why. She didn't know anything anymore. All she knew was that Silvia's mouth was warm and her hands were sure and for one terrible, shameful moment, Jimena felt wanted.
When Silvia pulled back, her eyes were bright with something that looked almost like triumph.
"There," she said softly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Jimena couldn't speak. Her lips were tingling, her heart was racing, and there was a cold, sick feeling settling in her stomach that she knew would never quite go away.
Silvia stood, smoothing down her dress. "I have a meeting this afternoon. We'll have dinner together tonight—just the two of us. Something special."
She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder.
"Wear the pink dress. The one with the buttons down the front."
Then she was gone.
Jimena sat alone on the bed that wasn't hers anymore, in the house that wasn't hers either, and touched her fingers to her lips.
She could still taste Silvia's lipstick—rose and something darker beneath it.
This is where you belong now.
For the first time, Jimena wondered if she had ever belonged anywhere else.