Powerful men are driven by colossal egos with narcissistic tendencies. They don’t want their fiancée to fuck someone else. If my future husband is what people whisper about him, he won’t have any issue killing my lover to prove a point.
In the Mafia, feelings don’t matter. It’s all about duty and responsibility.
“I don’t want to lose him. I don’t know what to do.”
Looking at me through glassy eyes, her voice cracks. “Everything happens for a reason. Remember that. Besties forever?”
“Besties forever.”
Tristan is never late, so I roll my small suitcase, the wheels turning with a destination clear in mind.
Sucking in a lungful of air to fortify myself, I allow myself a moment simply to contemplate him. I’ve been doing that more and more lately as if to memorize him in every posture. Replaying in my mind every stolen moment, reliving every enthralling feeling, and how my entire being lit up the moment I’d see him.
No one will look at me like he does, making me feel all kinds of things until I am dizzy on my feet, breath hitching from the sheer intensity—a mix of passionate love and raw adoration, sprinkled with unapologetic obsession staring back at me.
I believe him when he says he’s mad about me.
The end of spring boasts a full bloom, painting the landscape in lush pastels, but my inner world is dying. Such a contrast to last fall. Even as everything around me was decaying, love blossomed. When winter broke, passion kept me warm,overshadowing the icy temperatures. Yet once the season of rebirth rolled in, I faced a merciless end.
I could run away with him. That thought has taken center stage in my brain. Go away where no one could find us, but it’s just a beautiful dream, a fantasy.
Love would switch to survival. I could never relax with someone hunting us down. The pressure would strain our relationship, chew up every beautiful feeling and spit them out.
Desire would switch to remorse. He would upend his life for me, but he needs stability, his work. Without his coping mechanisms, his demons would devour him. At some point, I’d miss my family.
Our situation is hopeless.
Doomed before we even began.
He climbs out of the car, yanking me out of the mental trap and kicking my legs into action.
I run to him as if I sprout wings, knowing in his arms I will find heaven—a fragile bird soaring.
He catches me with ease, twirling me before he places me down. Framing my face, he kisses me breathless.
That’s so him—tender yet demanding, gentle yet consuming.
“I love you, Tristan,” I whisper, overcome by raw emotion, needing him to believe the absolute and irrefutable truth of my life. Our love should be enough, not forbidden or catastrophic.
“Promise me you’ll love me, regardless,” he says, his tone urgent. “That you trust me. My love. That?—”
I cut him off, aware of his need, our hearts speaking a common language, honoring their sacred connection. “I do. I will. Nothing would change my love for you. I am yours.”
Something dark flashes in his deep brown eyes that only thrills me. “You promised.”
“I’m your good girl like that.”
“You tease,” he grins and grabs my suitcase. With his palm on my back, he urges me into the car.
For a few moments, I don’t move. Just stare at his silver, one-of-a-kind car, and gulp. This is the last time it will bring me to the beach house.
He places a kiss on my forehead; the sweet gesture frees me from despair’s clutches.
Inside the car, I buckle myself in and watch as he drives—assured, like in everything else. If I only had a smidge of his confidence, I could run the world.
I hate every woman who will come after me.
I hate that he will be with someone else.
