As if he were a ghost, as if he didn't exist. She felt alone, once again.
When she hurried down the stairs, trying to be faster than the elevator, when she checked the lobby and even when she stepped outside the hotel—she couldn't find him.
At first, Valentina didn't understand the words of that investigator. She wanted answers, but since she hadn't gotten them, all she could do was let out a heavy sigh and wonder if maybe the message meant nothing at all. Perhaps, out of pity for foreigners, he simply hadn't wanted to add more fuel to the fire.
Back in her room, she decided to prepare a bath. It was a spacious room with a decent view of the city. She wanted to strip off the clothes she had on as quickly as possible; they made her feel dirty, and to her misfortune, she would have to wear them again the next day.
She dug desperately through her pockets, needing to reach Bastian, to explain everything—but then she remembered her phone had been left at the police station. She didn't even know his number by heart.
Her mind turned into a maelstrom: tornados, thunder, lightning—symbols of the chaos consuming her thoughts and feelings. She couldn't simply stop thinking, and yet she had no choice but to wait.
When morning came, the first thing on her list was to go to that small boutique next to the hotel. At first, they gave her strange looks because of her clothes, but once they saw her card charged in francs and not euros, smiles appeared—though they faltered for an instant when they noticed the mark on her shoulder.
She managed to recall how to get to the police station, but once inside, she couldn't remember exactly where she needed to go.
As she stepped further in and her eyes landed on a familiar figure, a bittersweet taste filled her mouth. It was the omega police officer who had been present in the showers.
He led her again to a closed room where all her belongings lay. Her suitcases were open and empty, her clothes scattered across a table. Perfume bottles opened, nearly drained, creams just as bad. Her phone was sealed in a transparent bag, as though touching it might spread infection.
"Excuse me, but my jewelry is missing," Valentina said, frantically flipping through her clothes.
"That's all there is," the officer replied.
Before closing the door, he gave her a look she couldn't decipher. Pity? Mockery? Complicity? She didn't want to think about it. It wasn't that Valentina wanted to accuse them of theft, but she had arrived wearing her jewelry—it couldn't have simply vanished.
She packed everything quickly and decided to look for the officer. The station wasn't big; she searched every corner but couldn't find him.
Just as she was about to give up, she saw him heading toward a small courtyard. Valentina approached to speak with him again, but two policemen blocked her way.
"Excuse me, I need to speak with him. My jewelry is missing," Valentina said in English.
They shook their heads, one of them pointing toward a sign that prohibited access to that area.
Still, she raised her voice, calling for the omega officer. He didn't answer. Instead, he walked away.
The policemen switched to Italian, words she couldn't understand, and even shoved her back.
Valentina's face flushed red. Her jaw clenched tight, her body stiffened, adrenaline rising in her chest as her eyes locked on theirs.
She completely forgot the interrogator's warning and began shouting that they were thieves, that they had stolen everything, that they were corrupt.
And then a chill ran through her body as she sensed someone behind her, carrying a strange scent:
"Lower your voice, or you'll be taken straight to the cells. Leave," said a policeman in English, his eyes turned red, his body radiating a pungent cinnamon-like odor as he pointed at the exit.
It wasn't a normal perfume. That dense, sour cinnamon stench clung to her nose. As a beta, she didn't feel its full effect, but it still turned her stomach.
She had no choice but to keep quiet and get out of there. Her acute perception let her notice the officer's heartbeat racing, the way his pheromones grew heavier, enough to make the others step back.
She had planned to make a scene, but she was no match for a station full of alphas and omegas. Defeated, she felt their stares pierce her back, their indiscriminate laughter following her out.
Shame, disappointment, anger, the urge to cry, pure helplessness—all of it coursed through her. She headed toward the train station, scratching at her face and arms as if something had bitten her.
So dazed was she that someone suddenly stopped in front of her, scowling, gesturing for her to answer a call:
______________________________________________________
Phone Call
"Valentina, finally! I've been calling a thousand times. Where are you?" Bastian shouted.
"They stole my jewelry, they sprayed me while I was naked. I'm not coming back," Valentina said, fighting tears.
"Amore, every country has its rules. You don't really think they robbed you, do you? If you get in trouble again, call me," Bastian said softly.
For a moment, Valentina considered hanging up. She just stared at the tracks in front of her while strangers passed, giving her strange looks. Her head was a swirl of tangled thoughts, her heart a knot of contradictions.
An old woman approached, asking for directions. Valentina apologized, explaining she was also a tourist. The woman then pointed at Valentina's arm: she had scratched herself raw without realizing. Anxiety was eating her alive.
_________________________________________________________
Phone Call
"Valentina, who's there with you? ANSWER ME!"
Stress, doubt, the paralysis of not knowing what to do—it all felt like vertigo, worsened by the sudden ringing in her ears.
_______________________________________________________
Phone Call
"What did you say? I didn't hear," Valentina asked listlessly.
"I need you to tell me your every move. I'm worried sick about your safety," Bastián said gently.
Though exhaustion still weighed her down, his words gave her a fleeting sense of peace and understanding. At first, she resisted, not wanting to speak to anyone, even feeling pressured—but then she told herself that maybe he was just as anxious as she was.
The itching didn't stop, though it was less intense. She complied, gave him her location as he asked. She no longer wanted to think about anything—or anyone—else.
_____________________________________________________
Arriving in Zurich, she felt the air was different, lighter. The HB central station was as crowded as always, but this time she was back on her own ground.
She wasn't fond of wasting money on taxis, but with all the drama, and at Bastian's insistence, it was the safest way to get home without setbacks.
Halfway there, her phone rang: Lucas. She ignored it, lowered the volume. She had no strength left, no will—and when the screen finally went dark, she felt only relief.
______________________________________________________
Monday came. She hadn't stopped exchanging messages and calls with Bastian. She felt whole again, convinced he truly cared.
Because of that comfort, she decided not to mention what had happened at the police station. She didn't want to relive that chill—or worse, spark a fight with him.
She went to the office as usual, and once again, just like the weekend before, she felt eyes on her.
"So, what's it like to go through rut?" a coworker asked.
"Excuse me?" Valentina answered, startled.
Offices, like hospitals, were breeding grounds for gossip—not just creating it, but spreading it.
Valentina didn't give details. It wasn't that she disliked socializing—it was that she couldn't do it with just anyone.
_______________________________________________
Hours passed, and as she was about to shut down her computer at the end of the day, she was called into an emergency meeting.
She assumed it was about the tender, but no—it was a new project. A commercial shoot for a water brand. The agency had just won a new client.
They gave her the brief, the budget, the dates. Time was tight, barely three months. It struck her as unusual, but in a good way—this wasn't a small client.
_______________________________________________
The nights were falling faster now; at only 8 p.m., the darkness already pressed in. Returning to her routine made her feel whole again. She checked her phone, saw a message from Bastian, thought about calling him, but then:
______________________________________________
Phone Call
"Valentina, is everything okay? You haven't confirmed our meeting time," Lorenzo said.
"Lorenzo! I'm so sorry, I've been swamped. Give me until tomorrow, please."
She had forgotten. Forgotten about Lorenzo amidst everything. She had to call her partner—the one she hadn't spoken to in days, ignoring his calls.
She quickly texted Bastian, saying she'd call later, that she was about to drive. She turned on the radio and dialed Lucas.
________________________________________________
You're listening to Radio 80s, the best in Zurich… now playing "Boys Don't Cry."
________________________________________________
Phone Call
"So you've been ignoring me?" Lucas laughed.
"Hello," Valentina said, serious.
"Hey, what's with that tone?" (a voice echoed in the background).
"I'm driving, hold on… who's with you?" Valentina asked, surprised.
"Ahh, yeah, Andrea moved in with me for a while."
"Lucas… okay. Thursday at 8 p.m., you remember?"
"Yeeahh… I was thinking… what if I bring Andrea to the event? I don't want to leave him alone," Lucas said, lowering his voice as if he already knew it was a bad idea.
"EXCUSE ME?!" Valentina shouted, brakes screeching in the background.