PENTHOUSE 521

twenty-three | late night talking

Hot tears rolled down my cheeks. I was a mess on the inside with the realization that everything eventually fell to pieces in one way or another.

Everything and I mean everything went to shit when it came to my relationships. Or at least the ones that truly mattered.

First, my parents. To them, fame, wealth, status, and reputation were all that mattered.

No morals, no concern, no sympathy.

They operated on values rooted in their own needs and wants and would tear anything down they didn't see fit into the mold of perfection. As an eyewitness to behind-the-scenes of every public move they have made, I can confirm that the saying is true: Monsters mask themselves cleverly. They hide behind the most attractive masks and mirages to gain your trust slowly until they find the time is most ripe to rip you to bits. Rip you from limb to limb.

Like disguised wolves among sheep, waiting in the grasses to hunt you down and swallow you whole.

Awful people. How strange that I carried their blood in my veins. I came from their so-called 'love.'

When we moved on to my romantic relationships, I failed there, too.

Álvaro, who I met on the docks of Port Ibiza just a year ago.

Who I considered my first love since he seemingly came from an entirely different world than I did. Just as my mother pointed out earlier.

Did she ever consider maybe that's what made him so appealing to me?

Unlike the boys at the Academy, I didn't have to wear a mask around him. I didn't have to feed into his ego and fantasy of playing the part of the perfect girlfriend like they had wanted.

No, with him, I could just be me.

He didn't come from a world where his last name carried weight, and every interaction was a move in a fucked up game of chess with real-life players and consequences and people keeping score of who was winning. Simply put, with Álvaro I could just be Catalina and that was enough.

Until the day it fucking wasn't. And my last name became my downfall.

The fucking irony.

So as you can see, for a time, I so foolishly thought that Álvaro would be my first and last love.

Now, Niccolò.

Niccolò. . .

I didn't even know where to start with him because he had been treating me like royalty, like a princess, in all honesty. Nothing less.

I felt excitement thrumming in my veins whenever I approached his penthouse in the last few weeks. My stomach did flips during the rides up the elevator to his apartment. It wasn't nerves, no, not entirely, but actual delight. I was looking forward to seeing him.

If anyone knew how I smiled like a dork whenever I thought of him, even at home while doing simple tasks, they would laugh.

I wasn't ever like this, not even with Álvaro. Yet, Niccolò's seemingly occupied my mind, for whatever reason, ninety-six point seven percent of the time.

Okay, that's a lie.

It was more like ninety-seven percent (if you wanted to round up and get technical.)

And that revelation was fucking terrifying. To be so dependent on someone because you saw the good in them and the potential of where things could go if you took the chance.

So, I was the one who walked out on him. Left him alone and confused.

And what was it for?

For me to come running to my parents because I was scared about the depth of my emotions?