To get through a heartache after the sudden breakup, Arabella moves to New York City to start another chapter of her life.
Driven by the hope to make Adrian Castle, the man who left her broken to pieces with an excuse of protecting her against his w...
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"So how was your night?" Camilla asks me while observing my every move.
Sighing, I grab a box of milk from the countertop and finger the lid. There's just cereals and eggs for breakfast. We need decent grocery shopping—something I'm positive has never been on Camilla's priorities by any means.
Pouring fresh milk into the bowl of cornflakes, I coolly reply, "It was OK. The club was quite...exotic? Well, adventurous in a sense of watching people fucking in an open space like some kind of a mating ritual?" I exclude the shootout details; it's not my call to make.
Camilla burst out laughing. "Welcome to New York, girl. And welcome to the club."
I roll my eyes tiredly with mild amusement before I add, "I ended up in Adrian's hotel room but I slept alone and woke up alone. No biggie." A smile, small and lurid, kisses the corners of my lips as I glance at her.
"Oh." Regret coats her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Ara."
"Nah!" I retort. "Don't be."
But remorse keeps hunting her.
"I guess he's just playing the stone-cold card; he's so fuckin' good at it, I won't lie to you. My boss is one of the few people I can't afford to piss off. Not even the contentious Falcon could beat Adrian when it comes to acting cold and indifferent when he wants to draw the line." She laughs gently while lifting her coffee mug toward her lips, still wearing her silky sleeping robe with her hair free and messy past her shoulders.
I shrug my shoulders, my brain out of intelligence on what to say.
But speaking of Falcon feels like a caress on my grand curiosity. I wanna know more about him for some reason. After all, he almost killed me and as a result, my life's a big mess now.
"So, you and Falcon" — I sit next to Camilla with my cornflakes bowl and spoon in hand — "how did you end up together? I mean, how did you meet him?"
As though I've poured freezing water on her face, Camilla coils immediately. Her ten fingers curl around her coffee mug, and her chest heaves uncomfortably.
"Uh, my bad," I say. "You don't need to respond if you don't wanna talk about it. The last thing I want is to impose on your personal life. Trust me, I know all about saying things you don't want to say. It sucks."
Camilla pulls in a long, deep breath and sits upright. "I don't wanna talk about it but I can still answer your question." Her usually confident eyes grow somber as she looks down at her coffee while saying, "I lived with my maternal Aunt in Puerto Rico before my life took a turn when I was fifteen."
"Puerto Rico? I thought you're American," I chime in.
"Born and raised in San Juan... I'd love to consider myself Afro-Caribbean, with all due respect." She laughs indulgently, and at last, she takes a sip of her drink as I laugh along. "We had it rough, honestly. My Aunt constantly complained about having to take care of me while her life was already fucked-up by being a stripper at a nightclub, earning peanuts. So the first chance she got to escape the goddamn poverty, she used it incredibly well." Her smile weavers; pain twists her features. "I just woke up one day and found out that I was sold to some Spanish Don, an old man called Antonio Cristobal. A drug lord? Illegal firearms dealer? I don't know. He was many shades of crime."
