The first thing that hit me when I stepped back into our tiny apartment was the smell. Vanilla scented candles mixed with the lingering undertone of Mala's takeout from last night a greasy combo of soy sauce, garlic, and regret. My heels clicked against the cheap linoleum floor, each sound loud in the silence. My dress clung to me like guilt, and Kyl's cologne still lingered on my skin, wrapping around me like a second, shameful layer. I looked like a zombie from that movie I and Mala loved called the undead.
The apartment looked like someone had pressed pause on a chaotic sitcom. Clothes draped over chairs, an empty wine bottle on the coffee table, open makeup compacts like shattered reflections of different lives. My bed; a mattress on the floor with faded pink sheets was just as I'd left it, unmade and lonely
And there was Mala.
She was sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of her oversized graphic tees, sipping from a coffee mug with mascara smudges under her eyes. The second the door creaked, she snapped to attention.
"Ivy?"
Her voice was tentative, careful.
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat was swollen with too many words, none of them ready. I felt hollow.
She stood quickly, barefoot, her pink braids bouncing as she moved across the room. Her eyes scanned me top to bottom, my smeared lipstick, my tousled hair, my trembling hands still clutching the envelope of cash. I didn't even realize I'd been holding it like a lifeline.
Mala's face shifted. From concern to something like stunned realization. She gapsed.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "You did it."
I nodded slowly. Or maybe I just blinked. The next thing I knew, she had wrapped her arms around me, hugging me with her whole body. I felt warmth in my soul as she did.
"I was so worried," she murmured against my hair. "You were gone all night. Jesus, Ivy. I thought maybe he'd murdered you or—"
"I don't know what I did," I said quietly, pulling back. "It doesn't feel real. I feel so dirty"
She looked down at the envelope. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Fifty grand," I whispered, voice cracking. "He paid me. Like—like a prostitute."
Mala's eyes widened, but then softened. "Girl, you're not a prostitute. You're a survivor. You got paid for something people give away for free every damn day. Don't look at me like that. This? This is power."
"I let him…" I trailed off, unable to finish. My lips trembled. "And it was my first time, Mala." I cried.
The room went still.
Her eyes filled with something like fury and pain. "That motherfucker."
"No," I said quickly, sitting down on the edge of my mattress. "He didn't hurt me. He didn't know. I told him… afterward. And he didn't push. He was… soft. I don't know how to explain it. He was supposed to fuck me, but he didn't. He made love to me."
Mala knelt in front of me. "So what's the problem?"
"The problem is I liked it." The words came out in a rush. "I liked him. I want him again. And I don't know what that makes me."
She reached out and took the envelope from my lap, set it on the nightstand. "That makes you a woman, Ivy. You had sex for the first time, and it rocked your fucking world. Billionaire or not, that's normal. That's human."
I stared at my fingers. They were trembling.
"Let me run you a bath," she said softly. "You look like you're about to fall apart."
"I already did," I murmured.
Mala didn't reply. She just stood, turned on the tiny bathroom's hot water tap, and tossed in a bath bomb that fizzed with lavender and vanilla. The scent wrapped around me like a warm lullaby.
"Come on," she called gently. "Take your time."
I peeled myself out of the dress, every movement stiff. My thighs still ached. My chest felt tight. When I stepped into the tub, the heat made me gasp. I sank lower, letting the warmth seep into my bones.
Through the cracked bathroom door, I could hear Mala humming softly, moving through the kitchen, probably making toast she knew I wouldn't eat.
When I finally emerged, wrapped in a towel and with damp hair clinging to my neck, she was waiting with two mugs of tea and a plate of buttered bread.
We sat cross-legged on the mattress.
"So," she said, taking a bite. "Tell me everything."
I did. Slowly. Piece by piece. From the dance on the stage to the moment I woke up in Kyl's bed and felt like someone else entirely.
Mala listened without judgment. Just sipped her tea, nodded, let me cry when I needed to.
"I don't think I'm the same anymore," I whispered.
"You're not," she said. "But that's not a bad thing."
I glanced at the envelope again.
"You think I should see him again?"
Mala smirked. "Babe. He's hot. He's rich. And he clearly wants more. You're single. He's single. Fuck yes, you should see him again. And not just for the money."
"I don't want to feel bought."
"Then don't take the money next time," she said. "Or take it and invest in yourself. Who cares? The point is this might be more than a fling."
I laughed, but it sounded hollow.
She reached over and squeezed my hand. "He saw something in you, Ivy. And you saw something in him. Don't let fear talk you out of something real."
I curled my knees to my chest, watching the steam rise from the tea.
"I'm scared," I said.
"I know," she replied. "But sometimes the scariest choices lead to the best damn stories."
The apartment felt warmer. Softer. My body still ached, but it wasn't all bad now. There was something electric beneath the fear, desire, maybe, hope and confusion.
Outside, the sun had started to rise higher, painting the cracked walls with pale light. I wasn't ready to call Kyl.
But I wasn't ready to forget him either.