Chapter 9: The First Night Alone
The evening settled over the estate like a held breath. Jimena had spent the hours after the greenhouse drifting through the house like a ghost, her hands remembering the shape of the shears, the warmth of Silvia's body pressed against her back. She had tried to read, but the words blurred. She had tried to nap, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw the orchids, their patient faces, the way Silvia had looked at her like she was something to be cultivated.
Dinner had been quiet. Silvia had served a simple stew, crusty bread, a glass of red wine that Jimena had only sipped at. The conversation had been light, almost normal. Silvia talked about the garden, about the weather, about a neighbor's dog that had gotten loose and dug up her roses. Jimena had laughed at the right moments, nodded at the right pauses, but her food sat heavy and untasted in her stomach.
Now she lay in her canopied bed, the lace curtains glowing faintly in the lamplight from the vanity. She had changed into her pajamas—a thin cotton set, pale lavender, with tiny buttons down the front. The fabric was soft from washing, worn thin in places. She could feel the cool air of the room against her skin through the material.
A soft tap at the door made her sit up.
"Come in," she said, her voice coming out smaller than she intended.
Silvia entered, a cup of something steaming in her hands. She had changed into a long robe, deep maroon, the kind of thing that belonged in an old movie. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, gray and silver catching the light. She smiled when she saw Jimena propped against the pillows.
"Can't sleep?" Silvia asked, crossing to the bed.
Jimena shook her head. "Just thinking."
"Thinking is dangerous at this hour." Silvia set the cup on the nightstand, steam curling upward. "Chamomile. It'll help."
"Thank you."
Silvia sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. The proximity was immediate, intimate. Jimena could smell the lavender soap again, mixed with something warmer, something that was just Silvia.
"Your first week here has been busy," Silvia said, her voice soft. "I want you to feel at home. Truly at home. Not like a guest."
"I do," Jimena said, and meant it, mostly. "You've been so kind to me."
Silvia's eyes softened, and for a moment she looked almost vulnerable, almost human. "You're easy to be kind to, dear." She reached out, brushing a curl from Jimena's forehead. The touch was gentle, almost motherly. "You've had a hard life before this. I know that. I want to give you everything you've been missing."
Jimena's throat tightened. She thought of the group homes, the foster families who had looked through her like a window instead of a person. The ones who had seen her only as a body, something to be used or discarded. Silvia was different. She was strict, yes, but she was present. She saw Jimena.
"Thank you," Jimena whispered again, helpless to say anything else.
Silvia's hand lingered at her forehead, then slid down, fingertips grazing her cheek, her jaw. The touch was light, but it sent a current through Jimena's skin. She felt her breath catch.
"You're so beautiful," Silvia murmured, almost to herself. "Do you know that? How beautiful you are?"
Jimena's cheeks flushed. She looked away, embarrassed. "I don't—"
"You don't see yourself clearly." Silvia's fingers continued their slow journey, trailing down the side of her neck, pausing at the collar of her pajama top. "Other people see it. I see it. You don't have to hide from me."
Jimena's heart was a rabbit in her chest, frantic and trapped. Silvia's fingers rested on the thin cotton at her collarbone, unmoving, just present. The fabric was so thin she could feel the warmth of Silvia's skin through it.
"You should get some sleep," Silvia said, but she made no move to leave. Her fingers traced a lazy circle on Jimena's shoulder, then drifted downward, along the seam of the pajama top. "These are nice. Soft."
"They're old," Jimena said, her voice thin.
"They're pretty on you. You make everything pretty." Silvia's hand settled at the curve of her waist, a light, possessive weight. "I was thinking about buying you some new things. A few dresses, some proper sleepwear. Something that fits you better."
Jimena nodded, not trusting her voice. The warmth of Silvia's palm seeped through the cotton, a brand on her hip.
Silvia shifted, pulling the blanket up to Jimena's chin with her free hand. The gesture was maternal, but the hand at her waist did not move. Silvia leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jimena's forehead. Her lips lingered, warm and dry.
"Sleep, little one," she whispered against Jimena's skin. "You're safe here. You're taken care of."
Jimena closed her eyes. The kiss left a tingling spot on her forehead. She could feel Silvia pulling back, the weight on the mattress shifting, but the hand at her waist lingered a moment longer, fingertips pressing just slightly, claiming the shape of her through the fabric.
She heard Silvia stand. Heard the soft rustle of her robe. But then there was a pause, a stillness.
Jimena opened her eyes. Silvia stood at the bedside, looking down at her, her expression unreadable in the dim light. Her gaze was fixed on Jimena's chest, where her nipples had hardened against the thin cotton, visible even beneath the blanket. Silvia's breath came in a soft, audible sigh.
"Goodnight, Jimena," she said, and her voice was lower now, rougher. "Dream of something lovely."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Jimena lay in the dark, her heart still pounding. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling the raised points of her nipples through the fabric, feeling the heat Silvia's gaze had left behind. There was something wrong, she knew. Something she couldn't name. But the bed was soft, and the house was quiet, and Silvia had been so kind.
She rolled onto her side, pulling the blanket up to her ear. The chamomile tea sat on the nightstand, growing cold. She didn't drink it.
Outside the window, the moon hung low and heavy over the garden, casting its pale light over the greenhouse, where the orchids waited in patient silence, their blooms curled tight, waiting for the right hand to open them.
In the hallway, Silvia stood with her back to the door, her eyes closed, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. She could still feel the press of Jimena's body beneath her palm, the give of her flesh through the thin cotton. Months. She had months. The thought should have been frustrating, but it wasn't. It was delicious. It was a slow savoring, a deliberate unspooling.
She smiled in the dark and went to her room, already planning tomorrow's lesson.