"Kiss me." He picks me up and kisses me again.
His hands on my waist, my hands in his hair and my lips all over him.
I think I don't have a crush anymore.
I think i'm in love.
We break the kiss and he looks at me, "I'm so fucked aren't I my Val?"
︶꒦...
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I sit beside the two graves—one of my father and one of my mother.
Sometimes, I like to dream of how they'd be if our lives hadn't been caught up in the chaos of the mafia world, but I have accepted that some people are the way they are and we cannot change them.
I have been painting so much more. I used to be scared to pick up a paintbrush, fearful that I might hurt someone, but I never did.
I was so scared I was just like my parents, but in actuality, I'm nothing like them.
Thank gosh—can you imagine me running around with the urge to murder someone? I'd probably talk too much about the act and get locked up before I even committed a crime.
I live in a flat and keep a low profile because, though I'm naive, I know that my safety is always at risk.
I've changed my identity too. I'm no longer Valentina Garcia but Elisa Stone.
Simple and basic, so no one would suspect a thing.
It's been two years since I left the hospital. During the night, I like to daydream that a certain someone is in my arms. I've attempted to date, but no one has fulfilled my heart the way Demetrius did.
I also got told to stop talking and to use my lips for what mattered. Funnily, the same guys would just disappear afterward.
Sometimes, when I'm walking in the streets or going to one of my galleries or charities, I feel a presence following me. I should feel uneasy, but a sense of excitement fills me.
My artwork has gotten a lot of attention. I went to art school, and my professor loved my work and promoted it to such a heightened level that now it's everywhere.
My work is a reflection of the chaos in my life and the chaos in my head.
I pack my stuff up and head to my car. I drive to my next auction.
My manager loves to speak about me to everyone and has connections with many fancy, rich people who have a thing for weird, messy art, I guess.
I like to think that my work reflects the chaos in everyone's life. Though it was originally a way for me to find myself, it soon became a story.
I get out of the car, and lights start flashing in my face.
"Guys, slow down! If you're all super nice, I'll speak to you all individually!" I smile.
They all ignore me and continue flashing.
I suddenly get pulled by the arm, and my manager shakes her head. "What did I say? They will never listen!" I laugh and shake my head.
My manager has long silver hair—she has an impulsive hair-dyeing issue.
She pulls my hand, and I enter the backstage area.
