Chapter 30: My Demon Mistress Found Me Alone in the Pool Hall

Alone in the pool hall beneath the hanging lights, surrounded by eight empty green tables, with the smell of felt, wood, and chalk in the air, and the absolute silence that only existed in university basements where nobody came at this hour of the day.

Adrián walked over to Table Four.

He pulled his cue from its case.

His old cue.

His cue.

The one he had bought when he was fifteen with his first savings and carried with him to every regional tournament.

The tip was worn.

The grip bore the marks of his fingers.

He knew it the way a person knew a language.

He took the balls out of the rack.

Placed them one by one on the green felt.

Lined them up in their starting position.

Then placed the cue ball at the break line.

He leaned over the table.

Rested the cue between the thumb and index finger of his left hand.

Adjusted his stance.

Raised his right elbow.

Closed one eye.

Lined up the shot.

Struck.

The cue ball rolled across the felt.

Hit the rack.

The balls scattered with that exact sound—

that dry, familiar, mathematical crack—

that had been the soundtrack of his teenage years.

Two balls dropped.

One into the corner pocket.

Another into the side.

Adrián breathed.

For the first time in seven days, he felt his shoulders loosen.

He lined up again.

Struck.

Another ball dropped.

Lined up again.

Struck.

Another.

"This is it. This is who I am. This is the one thing I’ve been good at my entire life."

He kept going.

Shot after shot.

Never rushing.

Never thinking beyond the angle, the force, the trajectory.

Pool did that to his brain.

It shut off the voices.

Shut off the worries.

Shut off the noise.

It left only one thing.

One single thing.

The table.

The cue ball.

The target.

The line connecting them.

He thought about Marina Ríos and missed.

Hit too hard.

"No."

"Focus."

He lined up again.

Struck.

Dropped it.

He thought about Nikolás sitting in his armchair with those three shoeboxes open in front of him and missed the next shot.

The ball bounced off three rails without sinking.

"Focus."

He lined up again.

Dropped it.

Then he thought about Yuki.

Yuki, who had been avoiding him for seven days.

Who sat two rows ahead of him in statistics now.

Who no longer came to their usual bench in the courtyard.

Who had responded twice to his message—

"Hey, are you okay?"

—with nothing more than:

"Yeah, everything’s fine, Adri. Just a little busy. I’ll let you know when I can."

And nothing else.

She was probably still hurt because of what had happened with Ishtar on the bench.

She had probably interpreted—correctly, because Yuki had a radar for these things—that there was another girl in Adrián’s life.

And it had hurt her in a way Adrián had no idea how to fix without explaining everything.

And explaining everything was exactly what he couldn’t do.

He missed the next shot.

"Focus, damn it."

He lined up again.

Struck.

Missed.

Adrián lowered the cue.

Dragged a hand down his face.

Looked at the table.

Sighed.

He straightened.

Rested the cue over his shoulder.

Closed his eyes.

And when he opened them again—

someone else was in the room.

---

She was sitting on the neighboring pool table.

Not beside it.

On top of it.

Legs crossed.

Her outfit—more casual today, apparently—consisted of a long-sleeved white blouse tucked into a gray pleated skirt that reached halfway down her thighs, knee-high socks, and black shoes with a small heel.

Her clothes rested against the rails of the pool table as though sitting on top of professional equipment was exactly what one was supposed to do with it.

Her wine-red hair was tied into a low ponytail.

Her golden eyes were fixed on him.

And in one hand she held—

of course—

a glass of red wine.

Rhea.

Adrián froze with the cue still suspended in the air.

"..."

"Continue," she said with the casual tone of someone telling a waiter to bring more bread.

"..."

"Vega. Continue. I didn’t come here to interrupt you. I came to watch."

"...How did you get in?"

"Through the do—"

"Coach locked the door when he left."

"Then through another door."

"..."

"Vega. Play. You’re wasting the table."

Adrián stared at her for another few seconds.

Then, having absolutely no idea what else he was supposed to do, turned back toward Table Four.

He lined up.

Struck.

Missed horribly.

From her table, Rhea took a long sip of wine and made absolutely no comment.

Adrián breathed.

Lined up again.

Struck.

Missed.

He lined up one more time.

Then forgot she was watching.

He fell into the table.

Struck.

Dropped one.

Struck.

Dropped another.

Struck.

Dropped another.

Three clean shots in a row.

When Adrián finally looked up, Rhea was smiling very faintly.

Her wineglass was already half-empty.

She hadn’t said a single word in the meantime.

"Rhea."

"Yes, darling?"

"Are you going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to make me ask every three minutes until I give up?"

Rhea’s smile widened.

"I came because I thought watching you play might be interesting."

"It’s pool. It’s not interesting."

"You get very focused. Like a proper professional."

She studied him.

"Your whole face changes."

"..."

"It’s strange."

A tiny smile.

"Cute, but strange. You don’t look like yourself."

"..."

"And I’ve also been watching everything going on inside you, Vega. Everything."

Her expression softened slightly.

"For days."

Adrián looked at her.

"Ishtar isn’t the only one with ways of reading the people under her care. I have my own."

"Ah."

"You can talk to me."

She tilted her head.

"You know that, right?"

Rhea slid down from the neighboring table with the liquid grace of a cat.

She crossed the aisle between the tables.

Then sat on the edge of Table Four.

Adrián’s table.

Her hands rested at her sides.

Her legs dangled very close to him.

Her pleated skirt rose slightly with the movement.

Adrián decided, once again, not to look.

She met his eyes.

Less than three feet away.

And smiled.

And Adrián discovered, at that exact moment, that he had no idea where he was supposed to look because every possible direction suddenly felt like a political decision.

Rhea noticed.

She laughed.

Short.

Soft.

A low little trill that wasn’t quite mockery.

"Vega."

"What?"

"You’re red."

"I’m not red."

"You’re extremely red."

"It’s the heat from the lamps."

"Darling, the lamps are cold."

She looked up at them.

"They’re LED."

"..."

She took another sip of wine.

Tilted her head.

"You’re very tense."

"..."

"You’ve been tense all week."

Her golden eyes narrowed playfully.

"Is Ishtar clinging to you too much? Have you finally reached your limit?"

"Ishtar is Ishtar. I’ve gotten used to it."

He paused.

"A little."

"Good. That’s the only way to survive her."

"..."

"Vega."

"Yeah?"

"Talk to me."

Adrián breathed.

He looked at the cue in his hands.

Looked at the table.

Then at Rhea, who was still smiling at him with that almost feline calm, sitting on the edge of Table Four with the wineglass in her left hand and her right hand resting beside her.

"Okay."

"She’s my mistress. Literally my mistress. And she’s asking me to talk to her."

"And I think she actually means it."

He rested the cue against the edge of the table.

Stepped in front of her.

And—

without planning it, without fully deciding to, almost as though his body had made the decision without consulting his brain—

placed one hand gently around her waist.

Rhea didn’t move away.

One eyebrow rose.

"Vega."

"Yeah?"

"You’re being bold."

"Is that a problem?"

"I didn’t say it was a problem."

She took another sip of wine.

"I’m simply acknowledging it."

"...Okay."

His hand remained around her waist.

She kept drinking.

She didn’t make a single comment about it.

"All right," Adrián said. "I’ll talk."

"Start."

And he did.