Being admired had its price.
Remiri was used to glances trailing her, to conversations halting the second she entered a room. But lately, the energy had shifted. It wasn't just admiration anymore—it was competition. Women who once praised her behind her back now eyed her like rivals.
One evening at a rooftop lounge, the air was heavy with perfume, laughter, and low music. Remiri sat at the bar, her glass untouched, curls framing her face like a crown. The group of women a few seats away pretended not to watch, but their whispers carried.
"That's her? The one who—"
"Yes. With hands like—"
"And her mouth, they say…"
The words weren't meant for Remiri's ears, but she caught every syllable. Jealousy had its own language—sharp, hushed, and bitter.
She smiled anyway, dimples soft as if she hadn't heard a thing. But inside, she cataloged every stare, every tone, every flicker of envy.
The truth was simple: the women who had been with her never stayed quiet. They couldn't. They confessed in whispers, in drunk rants, in trembling laughter over brunch. They talked about how she made them feel, about how no one compared. And those who hadn't touched her yet wanted to know for themselves.
That desire bred tension.
It showed up in the way one friend clung a little too close to her at parties, marking her territory. In the way another sent texts at 3 a.m., desperate, knowing Remiri rarely answered. Even in the side-eyes exchanged when Remiri walked in a room, like she had stolen something that was never theirs to begin with.
But balancing her polished, untouchable image with the raw intensity of her private life was becoming harder. In public, she was the quiet, classy woman everyone adored. In private, she was heat, hunger, and control. Both sides were Remiri—but the line between them was thinning.
And she knew one thing: jealousy was dangerous.
Because if someone tried to expose her, to drag her private world into the open, the story wouldn't end with whispers.
It would end with fire.