Arabella Malik, the lethal American mob boss's daughter.
The beauty of the nineteen-year-old was well-known. Her hourglass figure and glowing grey eyes-which mirrored her father's, had practically everyone praising the ground she walked on.
Arabella...
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✰ Ａｒａｂｅｌｌａ ✰
"𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐭"
"Fucking street reception," I grumbled at my phone.
My day had not gone smoothly at, fucking, all.
The whole situation with Roman and Haley was distressing enough as it was, but now I was dealing with poor reception everywhere.
The teacher was supposed to receive the entire essay that I had written with said boy, via email. And my dumb-ass self thought it was a hand-in assignment.
This is what happens when you don't pay attention.
So, the college's wifi is terrible, and the essay is due in less than thirty minutes, and the wifi here isn't much better.
Normally, the reception on the campus is great, however, due to several power outages last night, the internet system was slowly rebooting and taking its time.
So here I am, having a mental breakdown over my goddamned awful day.
I tossed my phone to the side, not caring if it was cracked or not. As my overburdened mind shattered and tears streamed down my face, I slipped down onto the ground.
Crying wasn't a thing for me. I think the last time I cried was when Woody left Buzz and the group in Toy Story 4.
Fucking heartbreaking.
As tears streamed down my cheeks, I glanced blankly at the random car in front of me.
I'd be embarrassed, but I was going through a severe mental breakdown and hadn't even contemplated it.
My eyesight from the car was impeded when a figure appeared in front of me.
Looking up, I saw the one thing that had created so much turmoil in my heart, both good and bad.
I grimaced and shifted my gaze away from the impassive yet attractive man.
"Go away, please," I whispered as I gazed down at my uninteresting lap.
Droplets of water dripped from my eyes and landed on my light-coloured jeans, dampening the fabric.
From where I sat, I could see him crouching down and kneeling on the dirty floor in front of me.
I continue to ignore him with my head down and eyes away, fumbling with the ends of my pants.
"Arabella," He called, his tone gentle and low, something that softened my heart - to which I despised at this moment.
He had hurt me, and I had no intention of forgiving him anytime soon.
The warmth of his palm had suddenly reached under my chin, lifting it firmly but tenderly.
