Marti - 50729

Marti hovered by the edge of Carmen’s open doorway, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag like it could anchor her nerves.

Carmen looked up from her desk, one brow arching in that unmistakable way—cool, composed, always one move ahead. “You’ve been pacing my threshold for two minutes, querida. Come in, or go start a revolution somewhere else.”

Marti stepped in. Slowly. Quietly. Not her usual style.

Carmen’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not here to flirt. What’s happened?”

Marti sat, legs crossed but bouncing, fingers toying with the seam of her jeans. Her voice came low, breathless, like it had to sneak past the knot in her chest. “I… I finished writing about it.”

Carmen blinked once, measured. “About her?”

Marti nodded. The burn rushed to her cheeks, hotter than she'd expected.

Carmen sat back, hands steepled. “So let me guess—you want it published but don’t want to be the one to shout it from the rooftops?”

Marti met her gaze. “It’s not that I’m ashamed. I just… I don’t know if I want to wear this one in public. Not yet.”

Carmen’s lips curled—not mocking, but amused. “Marti, the girl who once dared three different exes to meet her at the same rooftop bar, suddenly wants discretion?”

“This one’s different.” Her voice cracked a little, then steadied. “It wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story I controlled. Angelica… she showed me something. And now it’s like my body remembers more than I’m ready to admit.”

Carmen’s smile softened. “So you want me to hold the match to the fuse for you.”

Marti let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “If you would.”

A pause. Then Carmen stood, her movement fluid, deliberate. She circled the desk and leaned against the edge in front of Marti. Her boots gleamed, her confidence palpable.

“I'll promote it,” she said, voice low, intimate. “But I’ll do it my way.”

Marti nodded. “I trust you.”

Carmen leaned in, brushing a loose strand of hair behind Marti’s ear. Her touch lingered, just enough to remind her who she was speaking to. “Good. Because this tale?” Her eyes gleamed. “It’s not a whisper. It’s a roar.”

Marti exhaled, tension sliding from her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Carmen smirked. “You owe me a drink. And maybe a confession or two. Off the record.”

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