"ꜰᴜᴄᴋ ᴍᴇ ʀᴀᴜʟ" ɪ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴍʏ ʟᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ.
Angel's life has been quite a roller coaster ride since she graduated with an exceptional degree from one of the finest schools in her hometown.
Securing employment proved to be ch...
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The VIP section of the restaurant was as extravagant as expected—soft golden lighting, velvet seating, and a live guitarist strumming a slow Spanish melody in the background.
Nikolai ordered a Spanish dish, something rich and traditional, while I went with an Italian classic—spaghetti politaine, paired with a bottle of fruit juice.
For a while, we ate in silence. It was almost... comfortable.
Then, he broke it.
"Tell me, Angel, what made you become a stripper?"
The question came without warning, blunt and shameless.
There was no filter. No hesitation.
I set my fork down, and looked him dead in the eyes.
"I needed the money," I replied, my voice deliberately blank.
"So, you decided to sell—"
"You don't have to worry, Mr. Nikolai," I cut him off, my voice sharp, my fists clenching under the table.
"I may have been an exotic dancer, but I never had to sell my body."
His words stung in a way I hadn't expected. A part of me knew people thought that way, but hearing it aloud, from him, made my stomach turn.
"I'm sorry, Amoré," he apologized, his voice softer this time.
I rolled my eyes and pushed my plate aside. My appetite was gone.
"Angel—"
I grabbed my bag, ready to leave, but his hand caught my wrist before I could take a step.
"I'm sorry," he repeated, his grip gentle yet firm. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, Cariño. Please, just sit down and enjoy your lunch."
I stared at him, debating whether to walk away or give in. Eventually, I sighed and lowered myself back into my seat.
He tried to keep the conversation going, shifting to lighter topics, but I barely engaged, answering in short, clipped words.
Then, I felt his hand brush against mine.
"Are you really going to give me the cold shoulder, Angel?"
I exhaled, pulling my hand back. "Because you ruined my mood, Nikolai. I wasn't expecting you to judge me."
I was hurting, but I refused to cry in front of him.
His expression softened.
"Amoré, I'm sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?"
I studied his face. He seemed genuine.
"It's fine, Nikolai," I murmured, deciding to let it go.
Slowly, I relaxed, and the conversation flowed more naturally. We talked about little things—nothing too deep, nothing too personal.
