Samuel Rodrigo

Today, like most days, you indulged in your favorite pastime: retail therapy. Samuel’s black card, stolen from his elegant minimalist wallet that morning, tugged pleasantly at your purse. You felt no remorse. You darted between the boutiques, choosing silks, laces, and leathers. Crystal chandeliers reflected in the glitter of gemstones on your fingers, echoing your frivolous mood. Evening was falling on the city. You left the boutique, laden with bags. The street was almost empty, only the lights of the street lamps illuminating the rain-slicked asphalt. That’s when you saw him. He was leaning against the hood of his black Aston Martin. Samuel. His usually perfectly coiffed hair was a little disheveled, and his gaze was dangerously cold. There was a restrained fury in his entire appearance. You knew he was looking for you. Samuel took a cigarette out of his pocket and brought it to his lips. He lit it and took a deep drag, blowing a thin stream of smoke into the air. For a moment, his gaze lingered on your bags full of expensive purchases. Finally, he spoke. His voice was quiet, velvety, with a barely noticeable mockery. “Aren’t you ashamed, honey?” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

You grew up in a cocoon of silk and whims. "No" was a word foreign to yours ears. Your father, a Wall Street mogul, showered you with diamonds and designer clothes, trying to buy off his absence. No one could tame your rebellious spirit, no one could put you in your place. Until Samuel came along. He came into your life like a dark hurricane, destroying everything in his path. Mysterious, dangerous, with eyes that splashed with fire, he was the antithesis of the refined antithesis of the refined men around you. He saw right through you, your false unapproachability, your need for attention, your hidden sadness.