The Invitation

Raffles, Singapore, 2028

Jessie -

Polished. Professional. CEO. Wife. Mother. A seemingly perfect life built on facade and pretense, molded and crafted by two men I loved in entirely different ways. One who shaped me into who I could be, one who saw who I already was. Maintaining a balance that prioritized everyone I loved. But where did that leave me? My needs. My desires. My wants.

The woman in the mirror wore carefully curated armor - designer suits, perfect makeup, and hair styled to project authority without threatening it. James had orchestrated every detail of this transformation, turning a brilliant but unpolished physician-scientist into someone who could command a room. His love was conditional, delivered with a manual–a set of expectations I'd once been desperate to meet.

But beneath this polished exterior, another woman was emerging. One who made billion-dollar decisions without seeking approval. One whose ambitions had outgrown careful constraints. One who had learned that real power didn't come from fitting into spaces others created, but from daring to create your own.

That was MJ's gift - not the mentoring or the funding or the professional connections, though he'd given all those freely. His gift was space. Space to think beyond boundaries. Space to want more than I'd been taught to. Space to become someone who surprised even myself.

James loved who I used to be. MJ loved who I was becoming.

The difference was destroying everything.

Standing in my hotel room in Singapore, watching rain blur the city lights, I felt the weight of these competing loves like gravity. The life I'd built with James - our children, our company, our carefully crafted image - sat on one side of an invisible scale. On the other side: the intoxicating freedom of MJ- of being truly seen, truly known, truly challenged to expand beyond safe boundaries.

What do you do when you’ve outgrown one life but can't fully step into another? When duty and desire collide - not just in your heart but in your soul? When the careful facades you've so carefully constructed begin to fracture, exposing truths you're not ready to face?

My phone sat dark on the desk, its silence louder than the rain. Soon it would light up with his name, and the walls I’d worked so hard to build would begin to crumble. I'd proven I could resist temptation, had spent years perfecting the art of professional distance. But I'd never learned how to resist the invitation to become more fully myself.

That was the real danger of loving MJ. Not the physical attraction, though that was undeniable enough. Not even the intellectual connection, though his mind challenged and excited mine in ways I'd never known were possible. No, the real danger was how his love gave me space– space to exist as every version of myself: the polished professional and the passionate woman, the devoted mother and the ruthless CEO, the good wife and the rebel dreamer.

James had given me a script to follow. MJ handed me blank pages and dared me to write my own story.

How do you choose between a life you've perfected and a life that could perfect you? Between duty and desire? Between who you are and who you want to be?

I was about to find out.

Jessie -

The notification light pulsed on my phone. One glimpse at his name on the screen and my entire body betrayed me- the old, familiar tightening in my chest, the dryness creeping into my throat. MJ.

I stared at my reflection in the hotel window, Singapore's city lights blurred by monsoon rain. Behind me, my laptop glowed with tomorrow's presentation slides, but his text cut through all of that, straight to the woman beneath the professional veneer.

“You in town for this conference?"

Six words, yet they burned like a match igniting dry tinder. I set the phone down harder than I needed to, as if the sound could drown out the flood of thoughts his name unleashed. The carefully maintained balance of the past few months felt as fragile as glass, already cracking under the weight of his presence.

Already I could feel the weight of bad decisions, regret settling around me like an old, worn shawl. As if the ending was already written, as if I had no choice but to keep moving forward.

The worst part? I didn't want a choice.

He had always been my weakness, since that first meeting when I was just a startup founder with wild curls and even wilder dreams, nervously pitching to his investment firm. Back then, I'd worn my hair slicked back into a tight bun, trying to look older, more polished, more worthy of his attention.

Halfway through the meeting, as I nervously explained my vision, he reached across his desk—a rich expanse of mahogany that seemed too big for anyone but him—and touched a single escaped curl near my temple.

"Never hide what makes you magnificent," he’d said.

The words had struck me differently than James's meticulous coaching about image and presentation. MJ wasn’t trying to mold me into someone better or more acceptable. He wasn’t trying to shape me at all. He simply saw me. Not just the scientist clawing her way to become a CEO, but the raw, unpolished, unapologetic me.

And that had always been the real danger.

Now, seven years later, my hair fell in controlled waves past my shoulders, professionally styled to the tune of three hundred dollars a month. Everything about me was controlled these days - my wardrobe, my speech, my decisions. Everything except what he did to me.

I picked up my phone again, fingers hovering over the keys. In the window's reflection, I caught myself biting my bottom lip - a nervous habit I thought I'd outgrown. We'd gotten so good at this dance - the professional distance, the careful politeness. Too good maybe.

"I'm here till Saturday," I typed, then added, "Giving a presentation tomorrow on Targeted Immunotherapy for Treatment-Resistant Carcinomas." The professional addition felt like armor, a flimsy layer of protection, as if academic language could mask what lay beneath.

He always had a million unread messages. I watched the message status change from delivered to read, tension coiling in my stomach. Was I just another notification cluttering his screen? Another name waiting behind that patient blue dot? Or was he like me - pulse quickening, heart racing, remembering the taste of skin, the weight of broken promises?

I crossed to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Singapore stretched out below, its lights blurred by rain, everything soft-edged and secret in the gathering dark. Behind me, my phone stayed silent, each minute stretching thin with the kind of waiting that felt dangerous.

Just when I'd convinced myself he wouldn't respond, just when I'd nearly gathered the willpower to turn back to my presentation- I heard it: that soft ding that might as well have been the crack of a starter pistol, signaling the beginning of something I already knew would leave marks.

“Dear - let's definitely find some time to meet up for dinner, maybe drinks. I really want to catch up."

A laugh escaped me, soft and knowing. Catch up. As if we'd ever been able to just talk when we were alone. As if anything about us had ever been that simple.

I started to type a response, but before my fingers could move, my phone screen lit up with a photo of my three children - three smiling faces freezing me in place. The youngest, with those eyes so like his father's, watching me. The universe, it seemed, had a sense of timing.

Jessie -

My children's voices spilled over each other through the phone, each wanting to be heard first. Their everyday stories- missed library visits, daddy not listening - grounded me and pulled me back from the edge I'd been tiptoeing toward. But as always, they’d wander away mid-sentence, their attention slipping elsewhere, leaving me staring at the ceiling, waiting for someone to remember I was still there.

"Hello, are you guys there?"

James's voice came on the line, steadier now but still carrying that new softness that made my guilt sharper. "Hey, yeah, we're trying to get them ready for breakfast and hopefully to school soon. We just wanted to call to say hi and see how things were going."

"Good. Things are good. I'm excited about my presentation tomorrow. I think I'm going to be able to do it. I'm going to meet some really good people. I probably should find some plans for dinner." The lies came easily now, smooth as the silk blouse I'd packed for tomorrow.

After we hung up, I took an extra-long shower, letting the hot water chase away thoughts I shouldn't be having. But my hands lingered as I shaved, imagining different hands, darker intentions. My skin remembered, even when I begged it to forget.

I looked at my face in the mirror. The subtle signs of aging were there, despite my half-hearted attempts at skin care. I saw the age starting to show. Not even my caramel skin could hide the evidence of passing years.

My kids sometimes ask me, "Are you old?"

I chuckle and respond, "I'm not old, they call this middle-aged."

"Middle-aged? What is middle-aged?" They look at me funny. I try to explain, as you do to toddlers, "I'm not quite old and I'm not young either. I'm in the middle." They would chuckle and run away.

Middle-aged. What did it mean?

Middle-aged meant the years of opportunity were firmly behind me, but there were years of responsibility and work left stretched endlessly ahead. It meant I belonged to the generation that held everything together—responsible for the ones who came before us, and the ones who would come after. Like so many women my age, I carried the weight of it all, the constant pressure. The endless expectations. The fulfilling of everyone else’s needs.

And never quite having my own meat.

Jessie -

The dress options lay spread across my bed, a choice between two versions of myself. One was flowing- comfortable, safe. The other, form-fitting and dangerous, chosen with one possibility in mind: he might be there. The kind of dress that required effort, intent and certain undergarments that had nothing to do with conference presentations.

I chose the second one. Shimmied into my faja, each hook and eye fastening me tighter to inevitable regret. My fingers smoothed over my stomach, tracing the silvery marks three pregnancies had left behind. The marks he'd traced with his own fingers the last time, unaware that he was touching his own future legacy.

The moisture between my thighs betrayed my body's decision long before my mind could catch up. I wanted him. It was the only certainty cutting through the haze. I didn't want to wait, didn't want to play the usual games of accidental meetings and professional small talk until tension boiled over.

My phone was in my hand before I could stop myself. "Do you have plans for tonight?" I threw it onto the bed the second I hit send, as if distance from the message could undo its inevitability. Blood rushed in my ears as I thought about what I'd just done. MJ always had plans, always knew everyone, always had somewhere more important to be.

His response came faster than expected: "No, actually I'm free. You want to grab something? I can come up to your room and meet you."

We both knew we wouldn't be leaving this room.

MJ -

The conference schedule sat untouched on my hotel desk, but my eyes kept returning to her name: Dr. Yesenia Mendoza Matthews, Keynote Speaker. The letters seemed to pulse with their own energy, drawing my attention like a magnet.

Even seeing her name on my screen unleashed a flood of memories - late nights in my office during the startup days, her brilliant mind racing ahead of her words, the way she'd absently twist her curls when lost in thought.

I'd watched her transformation from a brilliant scientist to a commanding CEO. I had shaped that journey with careful hands and calculated distance. Until that distance became unbearable.

I picked up the program again, studying her presentation abstract. The methodology was elegant. The potential groundbreaking. Exactly why I'd pushed for that emergency funding round. Though we both knew my reasons had never been purely professional. Back then, we maintained our boundaries: strictly professional in daylight, stolen glances across conference rooms, the electricity of almost-touching.

Now, years later, I knew the taste of her skin, the sound of her pleasure, how she trembled when I touched her. The same brilliance that had first drawn me to her professionally now manifested in every aspect of our connection - her ability to anticipate my thoughts, match my intensity, push my control to its limits.

I reached for my phone, knowing full well I was about to cross that line again. "Are you in town for this conference?" Innocent words masking years of undone restraint.

I already knew she would be here - I'd checked the speaker list weeks ago, telling myself it was professional courtesy. The same lie I always told myself when it came to her.

I stared at the screen, watching those three dots appear and disappear as she composed her response. Even this small sign of her hesitation affected me more than it should.

"Yeah, I'm here till Saturday." The blue bubble sat there, taunting me with its brevity. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. How many drafts would I type and delete before settling on something that didn't reveal too much?

Then she suggested tonight. And just like that, something shifted.

The pretense of casual reunion disintegrated. Her room number - 632 - appeared on my screen like an invitation I knew I shouldn't accept.

I took my time getting there. Walked the long way around the hotel floor, past the ice machine, the distant ding of the elevator marking time. My reflection in the brass elevator doors stared back at me: a man I barely recognized sometimes - successful, polished, everything I'd worked to become. Everything I'd helped her become too, watching her grow from an ambitious startup founder into a force no one could ignore

Standing outside 632, I adjusted my cuffs - a nervous habit I thought I'd broken years ago. The corridor stretched silent, except for the hum of air conditioning.

And the pounding of my own heart.

Jessie -

Back in bed, I'd taken off the dress again, lying there in just my faja. My fingers traced slow, deliberate circles around the rim of the water glass on the nightstand- round and round - remembering his touch, his taste, every moment we'd stolen over the years.

Each circle etched another memory I should have buried by now. Each pass of my finger unearthed another secret, another promise broken in the best possible way.

The knock startled me from my reverie. Three decisive taps, low and firm, that I felt in my core. I hesitated. Should I put on a robe? The dress again? Something else entirely? Something inside me, something reckless and true, made the decision.

I walked to the door, bare feet soundless against the carpet, pulse thundering in my ears. "Who is it?" My voice sounded foreign, breathless, already unraveling. His low chuckle came through the door. "Who do you think it is?” The familiar depth of his voice sent a shiver down my spine.

I turned the deadbolt, my hand on the handle, feeling the weight of the moment. The last rational part of my brain screamed to stop, to think about tomorrow, about consequences. But my body moved of its own accord, opening the door just enough to let him see what I was wearing - or more precisely, what I wasn't. Here, there were no polite smiles, no careful restraint. No hiding my hunger for him.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

My gaze swept over him, cataloging the changes time had written into his frame - broader shoulders stretching the crisp lines of his shirt, the hint of muscle beneath expensive fabric.

Single, no kids—he had always had the luxury of time to take care of himself. And it showed. In the way he stood, in the confidence that came so effortlessly to him.

His eyes traced a slow, deliberate path up my body, leaving heat in their wake. I watched his dark eyes take me in, darkening further with desire. His sharp inhale broke the silence.

Gone was the polished investor everyone wanted a piece of, replaced by the man only I got to see. A muscle worked in his jaw as he fought for control.

"Let me look at you," he murmured, his voice rough with need.

No calculated charm. No practiced grace. Just raw want, mirroring my own.

Suddenly aware of my exposure, my imperfections, I looked down. The marks of motherhood, the subtle signatures time had left on my skin - they felt glaring under his scrutiny.

He caught my retreat before it fully began. His fingers caressed my chin, lifting my face back to his.

"No, mi vida. Let me see you."

The words were gentle, but they held the quiet force of command. Pure MJ.

I stepped back, a wordless invitation. He followed, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that sent shivers down my spine. We stood in silence, the air heavy with possibility.

He must have known we’d end up here. Maybe not tonight, not this fast. We at least had to do the song and dance that we always did every time we saw each other. The we're-just-friends, that's-in-the-past routine.

But not this time. Because if middle age teaches you anything, it’s that life won’t wait for you to decide when you’re ready.

You take what you want. While you still can.

MJ -

The door clicked shut behind me. Silence settled between us, thick with tension, electric with the weight of everything unsaid. Yesenia stood there in black lace, her skin glowing in the dim light, looking at me with those eyes that had haunted me through a thousand sleepless nights.

No pretense. No game. Just Yessenia, offering everything I had spent years denying myself.

I drew in a sharp breath, feeling the last of my control slipping away. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to go - we had our routine, the slow unraveling of professionalism into passion over days, not minutes. But something was different this time. The way she looked at me spoke of decisions already made, of time we'd wasted playing our usual games.

She was trying to read me, like she always did. Searching for hints about what I was thinking, what I was feeling.

I wouldn't make her wait long.

My gaze moved up her body, slowly, taking in every curve, every dip, every shadow. The curves of motherhood had only enhanced her beauty, each subtle change in her body telling the story of years I'd missed. Her full breasts strained against delicate lace, and her neck... God, her neck! The same place I'd left marks before, territory claimed and reclaimed, over and over again.

Her hair cascaded in waves past her shoulders, a stark contrast cry from the tight bun of our first meeting. I fought the urge to thread my fingers through it immediately. To pull her close. To taste her skin.

Then, just for a second, she looked down at herself. That flash of insecurity that always surprised me. She never saw herself the way I saw her. Never understood that every change, every line, every mark on her body only made her more irresistible. That time had not dimmed her beauty. It had made her even more magnificent.

I reached out, tilting her chin up, making her meet my gaze. Something flickered in her eyes - desire, defiance, something deeper that neither of us ever dared to name.