Maya's Scandal
1237 Words
Maya’s already waiting at our usual table at Bleu, practically bouncing in her seat like she’s had three espressos. Except she’s in oversized sunglasses. Indoors. At brunch.
I drop into the booth. “Okay, what’s with the disguise? You look like a hungover celebrity hiding from TMZ.”
“Because I might be,” she hisses, leaning forward like we’re in some spy movie. “Elena, I seriously f****d up.”
“Define f****d up.”
“Married man f****d up.”
I nearly spit my mimosa back into the glass. “No. No way. Maya, please tell me you didn’t.”
Her grin says it all. “I did. And it was… yeah. Amazing. Complicated. Probably the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.”
My stomach sinks. “Who?”
“Senator Richards.”
I blink. Once. Twice. “Wait. The Senator Richards? As in, married to the heiress, might be running for governor, Senator Richards?”
“That would be him.”
I just stare at her, speechless. Maya’s reckless, sure. But this? This is like, career-ruining, headline-making kind of reckless.
“Maya. Have you lost your damn mind? Do you have any idea what happens if this gets out?”
She shrugs, cool as ever. “It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he’s got more to lose than I do. Rich, powerful, married politicians don’t exactly go advertising their affairs with twenty-eight-year-old photographers.”
“You’re advertising it to me right now.”
“You don’t count. You’re basically my conscience. With better hair.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “God, you’re insane. Tell me what happened.”
So she does. Step by step. The charity gala. Him watching her. Following her outside during her smoke break. The coffee invitation that magically turned into wine. And then, yeah. Hotel suite.
By the time she shoves her phone at me, showing a picture of the two of them in some fancy bar, his hand on her thigh, I’m two seconds away from slapping it out of her hands.
“Maya. Delete that. I mean it. Right now.”
“Why? It’s just a picture.”
“Just a picture? Are you, God, Maya, if that gets out it could tank his career and drag you down with him.”
She tips her head back, unfazed. “My reputation as what? A single woman who occasionally sleeps with hot guys? Please.”
She has a point. Doesn’t mean I feel any better about it.
“How many times?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Three. Well, three and a half if you count the car.”
“Maya!”
“What? He’s the one cheating. I’m single. Not my problem.”
“You’re playing with fire.”
“So are you.”
That makes me freeze. “Excuse me?”
She slides her glasses down just enough to smirk at me. “Don’t play dumb, Elena. I saw you last night at Chez Laurent. With Damian Blackwood.”
My blood goes cold. “You… saw me?”
“Oh, I saw everything. Cozy booth. Three hours of ‘business.’ Honey, that wasn’t business. That was seduction with dessert.”
“It was business,” I blurt, too fast.
She just laughs. “Sweetheart, I know a business dinner when I see one. And I know foreplay when I see it too.”
I sink lower in the booth. “How much did you see?”
“Enough. The way he looked at you when you walked in? Like he wanted to eat you alive. The way you leaned in like you were already halfway there.”
I want to argue, but I can’t. Because she’s right.
“We talked about the foundation,” I mumble, weak.
“Elena.” She levels me with that look. “You’re a terrible liar.”
My shoulders sag. “I don’t know what it is. Something. He makes me feel… like I matter. Like I’m worth chasing.”
“Because you are,” she says. “Adrian doesn’t see it, but Damian clearly does.”
“But I’m married.”
“So is Senator Richards.” She smirks again. “Didn’t stop me from having the best s*x of my life in a hotel suite.”
“Maya!”
“What? I’m just saying.”
Her cynicism hits a nerve. Because the truth is—my marriage with Adrian? It’s been cold for years.
“What if this is a mistake?” I whisper.
“What if it’s not? Tell me the last time Adrian made you feel excited. Desired. Alive.”
I can’t. I literally can’t remember.
Then my phone buzzes. I glance down. Damian. Still thinking about last night. When can I see you again?
Maya leans in, reads it over my shoulder, grins like a wolf. “Oh, honey. That man is not playing games.”
I stare at the screen, heart pounding. “What do I even say?”
“The truth. You’re scared, but you want him. You’re not ready, but you’re not running away.”
I type back: I need time to think.
His reply comes almost instantly. Don’t think too long. Opportunities don’t wait forever.
Maya whistles. “Damn. Smooth.”
And then her face shifts. Serious.
“There’s something you need to know,” she says quietly.
“What?”
“At the restaurant last night… there was someone else. Watching you and Damian.”
My stomach flips. “Who?”
“Big guy. Expensive suit. Sitting at the bar alone. He was taking pictures. Discreet, but yeah. Pictures.”
The room tilts. Photos. If Adrian sees those…
“Maya, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want to freak you out. But Elena, if Adrian’s having you followed,”
“Then I’m already screwed,” I cut in.
Her phone buzzes then. She glances at it, frowns.
“Who is it?”
She bites her lip. “Marcus.”
“…Marcus?”
“Damian’s bodyguard.”
I blink. “Why the hell is Damian’s bodyguard texting you?”
She blushes. “Because I may have given him my number last night.”
“Maya!”
“What? He’s hot! And intense. I was curious.”
“And?”
“And now he’s asking me to dinner.”
I just gape at her. “So let me get this straight. You’re sleeping with a married senator and lining up Damian Blackwood’s bodyguard?”
She grins. “Not sleeping with Marcus. Yet.”
I throw my hands up. “You’re a walking tabloid headline waiting to happen.”
“Look who’s talking,” she shoots back. “Those pictures of you and Damian? If they get out, boom. You’re front page too.”
That shuts me up real quick.
I push up from the booth. “I need to go home. Figure out how deep in s**t I am.”
“Elena, wait.” She grabs my hand, squeezes hard. Her voice, for once, is serious. “Whatever happens,
you’re not alone. We’re both in this fire. We’ll walk through it together.”
And I believe her. For better or worse.
But as I head home, Damian’s words burn in my chest. Opportunities don’t wait forever.
And all I can think is, if those photos really exist, maybe I don’t have any choice left.
- Writer
