Poison of love

Mason

I prepare for the evening, a ritual that has become almost automatic. After yet another shower, steam envelops the bathroom, fogging up the mirror. With a slow gesture, I run my hand over the surface, partially wiping away the moisture, just enough to see myself. And there, in my reflection, the thought of Jess resurfaces.
I feel a pang of fear. I have never raised my hands to anyone, let alone a woman. It's a part of me that I ignored and prefer not to uncover. I don't want Jess to see me in this light, transformed into something I do not recognize. I must calm myself, impose control, and not allow this to happen again.
With effort, I push those thoughts away, trying to focus on simpler, more concrete actions. I open the closet and carefully choose: a light blue shirt, light jeans, and blue loafers. I stand in front of the mirror, tucking the shirt neatly into my pants and fixing my hair, still disheveled. As I do, I notice the slight redness lingering on my hand, an indelible mark from the punch thrown at Taylor. That scene is still vivid in my mind, as if time cannot dull it.
I spray a little hairspray on my hair, trying to tame the last rebellious lock that falls onto my forehead. I open the drawer of the dresser and take the watch that my father gave me for my 18th birthday, a precious object that I wear with the same ritual as always. I check the time: 8:20 PM. It's time to go pick up Jess.

The West Side. A luxurious venue located in the heart of Mayfair, one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in London. Its large windows reflect the soft lights of the city, while inside a sophisticated and refined atmosphere prevails. The high ceilings, decorated with intricate golden patterns, welcome imposing crystal chandeliers that illuminate the space with a warm, enveloping light.
The walls are covered in dark blue velvet, interrupted only by contemporary art pieces, carefully selected to attract an audience with refined tastes. The ivory-colored Italian leather sofas, arranged around black marble tables, offer discreet comfort while patrons sip artisanal cocktails prepared by mixologists famous worldwide.
The bar, made of polished mahogany and brushed steel, is lit by soft lights that highlight the bottles of aged whisky and fine champagne. The clientele consists of financial magnates, international celebrities, and British aristocrats. Conversations are whispered, creating an atmosphere of exclusivity and discretion. And in the private rooms, decorated with sumptuous furnishings and carpets, confidential business deals and exclusive parties take place, away from prying eyes.
The guys are already busy with their glasses, some with wine, others with beer. They seem so disoriented yet euphoric about the victory, while I remain trapped in thoughts of my argument with Taylor.
I lower my gaze to my hand, which is holding Jess's. Then I lift my eyes to her. She is beautiful, as always. She's wearing the dress I gave her for Valentine's Day. I smile faintly, and she notices.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" she asks, slightly embarrassed.
"I can't take my eyes off you," I admit, whispering in her ear. She responds with a discreet smile.
We move closer to the group. As Jess settles in, I get up to grab a drink. At the bar, I run into Leyla.
"Leyla, you were invited too?" I ask, surprised.
"Jessica invited me," she replies bluntly, without even turning to look at me.
I remain silent for a moment, searching for the right words.
"How are you?" I ask gently.
"Do you really care?" she replies, raising an eyebrow and finally meeting my gaze.
"Yes," I respond, with a firm but sincere tone.
Leyla sighs, her eyes lost in the void.
"You never feel good after something like that," she murmurs, with palpable sadness.
"I know. I'm really sorry," I say, trying to connect my eyes with hers. She looks at me for a moment, then nods, giving a small smile.
At that moment, a notification interrupts the silence. Leyla checks her phone.
"It's Jess. She's looking for me. I have to go to her," she says, her gaze fixed on the screen.
She's about to walk away when I impulsively hold her arm.
"Leyla!" I exclaim.
She turns to me, her eyes filled with sadness.
"Yes?" she asks, puzzled.
"I really care about her," I confess, in a calm but deep voice.
Leyla stands still for a moment, then silently nods before walking away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
I approach Mia with two cocktails in hand. She's sitting next to Leyla, both immersed in light conversation, laughter mingling with words of complicity.
I gently place the cocktail glass next to her and let her continue chatting. In the meantime, I step away for a moment, joining the others to exchange a few words about the game.
After the first cocktail, I take the second, then the third, but I stop. I don't want to lose control, especially after that night when I let alcohol take over. I've chosen to stay sober, not to give in to excess, because this evening is important enough that I can't afford to lose any nuance.
The slow music begins to fill the air, and the dance floor becomes our private world. I approach Mia, extend my hand in front of her, and invite her to dance. There's no hesitation in her eyes, just a smile that makes my heart beat faster. We reach the dance floor, where others move in a whirlwind of energy, but we are in another space, far from everything.
I take her by the waist, pulling her close, and hold her tight as the melody envelops us. I'm not an expert at slow dancing, but the first time I danced like this was with her, and since then that movement has taken on a meaning that only we understand. Every step, every breath seems to dance in unison with the music and our hearts.
"Are you getting a taste for slow dancing?" she asks, a hint of amusement in her voice.
"Yes, since I met you," I reply sincerely as we move together, our bodies united in a sweet round dance. I hold her a little tighter, almost as if I want to transmit all the warmth I feel inside, and I brush her neck with a gentle kiss.
She shudders, a thrill running through her skin, and I feel it with every fiber of my being. Her scent intoxicates me, so enveloping, irresistible. It's as if I can't do without her, as if the world around us has dissolved into nothing.
"I can't help myself, sorry," I whisper, looking into her eyes, our gazes crossing with a sincerity I've never known before. The slow, enveloping music serves as a backdrop to a moment that, in this dance, becomes almost a secret that only the two of us know.
Our dance is abruptly interrupted by Leyla, who suddenly feels unwell. Perhaps she has drunk too much, and now nausea begins to take over. She asks Jess for help, and together they move away toward the bathroom. Her appearance is definitely pitiful, and I can't blame her. She's going through a tough time, one of those that can't be overcome lightly or quickly.
As I wait for Jess to return, my gaze falls on an unwelcome presence in the distance. Taylor.
What is he doing here? He wasn't invited, yet he's among the crowd. My evening is about to be ruined because of his intrusion. He's visibly drunk, stumbling between people, annoying them with his clumsiness. I watch him with disdain until our eyes meet.
He strides straight toward me. I stand firm, waiting for him.
"Finally found you," he mumbles, his words slurred, mixed with alcohol and the noise of the music, making it hard for me to understand him.
"What are you doing here, Taylor? You weren't invited," I shout above the noise.
"You... " he pauses, his gaze confused. "You are my ruin, Mason Scott," he finally says, his voice dripping with resentment.
"What are you talking about? Get lost, Taylor, before this situation escalates," I growl, gritting my teeth.
"Let's go talk outside," he proposes with a sardonic smile.
I agree, just to get him out of my way and return to my evening. I scan the crowd for Mia, but she hasn't come back yet. Using the excuse of waiting, I follow Taylor toward the exit.
Outside the venue, Taylor stops abruptly, and I halt a few steps behind him, keeping my distance. He turns to face me and stares in silence, as if he wants to instill fear in me.
I'm already tired of this game, so I speak first.
"So? What do you have to tell me that's so important?" I ask, my tone harsh.
"What you did today was a mistake. And I'll make you pay for it," he replies, his voice laced with malice.
"Really? Do you want to taste my fist again?" I retort, clenching my hand into a visible fist.
With a gesture of his hand, Taylor signals to someone, and within moments four imposing figures emerge from the shadows. At first, I don't recognize them, but as they approach, the light reveals their faces. They are members of the rugby team from King's College London, old rivals.
"You remember them, right?" Taylor asks, amused by my surprise.
"Of course, another four losers like you," I reply, laughing, trying to remain calm.
"Does that seem funny to you?" he asks, his tone dripping with malice.
"What do you think you're doing, Taylor? Five against one doesn't seem fair at all."
"Exactly. It will be me and you fighting; they will watch my back," he replies seriously.
It's incredible. He really wants to confront me, but with the backing of those four as guarantees.
I'm trapped. I couldn't defeat them all alone.
"Are you serious?" I ask, scrutinizing them one by one before returning my gaze to Taylor.
"I've never been more serious in my life," he says, crossing his arms.
"Are you afraid?"
"No, I'm not afraid. I just wouldn't want to get my clothes too dirty," I respond sarcastically, trying to buy time. I'm about to take out my phone to call Will, but I don't have time. Taylor lunges at me in an instant. He pushes me with a force I didn't expect, making me stagger back a few steps. His breath reeks of alcohol, and in his eyes, there's a blind rage, barely contained. Around us, his four goons surround us, watching closely, ready to intervene at his slightest signal.
"Don't you dare call anyone, Mason," Taylor hisses, his face too close to mine.
I feel adrenaline explode in my veins, my heart racing as the situation becomes clearer. There's no way out, not right now. I look around, but we're too far from the entrance of the venue, and no one would intervene.
I'm alone, surrounded by five men who have only one intention: to tear me apart.
"Do you realize what you're doing?" I try to say, with a tone of defiance.
"Five against one? Is that how you want to settle this?"
Taylor takes a step back, offering a grim smile. He gestures to his friends, and in an instant, I understand that there will be no more room for words.

The first to launch himself at me is one of the rugby players, a huge beast with arms that look like tree trunks. He tries to grab me by the shoulders, but I dodge him with a quick lateral movement, sending him off balance. Before I can react, however, I feel a punch hit my side, making me lose my footing. It's another one of the four, who now glares at me with a satisfied smirk.
There's no time to think. Pain shoots through my body, but anger and the instinct to survive take over. I spin around and hit the second guy with a right hook to the face, making him stagger backward. But I don't have time to savor that small victory: two more come at me, squeezing me in a vise.
I try to break free, but I feel a punch whip into my stomach. Air rushes out of my lungs, and for a moment, everything becomes muffled. My vision blurs, but I can't give in. With a desperate effort, I push one of the guys away and strike the first one I see in the face with an elbow.
"Hey, you're a bunch of cowards!" I shout, trying to challenge Taylor, who watches the scene with a smug smile.
He remains still, arms crossed. He doesn't even need to dirty his hands: he lets the others do the dirty work for him. They're good at this. I feel a kick to my ribs that doubles me over, knocking me to the ground.
For a moment, I think it's over. The blows come from all sides—punches, kicks, hands grabbing and pulling at me. Pain is everywhere, sharp and dull at the same time. But my mind is incredibly clear. I know that if I let go, if I surrender, it would be worse. I have to get back up.
With immense effort, I rise to my feet, my breath short and my muscles on fire. One of those guys comes at me again, but this time I'm ready. I dodge his blow and, with all the strength I have left, I hit him on the temple. I see him drop to the ground, dazed. But there's no time to celebrate.
Taylor approaches, chuckling softly.
"Did you really think you could get out of this situation?" he asks, with his usual sardonic tone.
I turn to him, blood pulsing in my ears. I can't respond. I'm falling apart, but the adrenaline still pushes me forward. Taylor gestures to the others, and the remaining two rush at me. This time, though, I no longer have the strength to react as I did before.
One of them hits me in the back, sending me crashing to my knees. I'm about to give in when I hear a noise behind me. A familiar voice.
"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?!"
It's Will. He's arrived with Mia, and he doesn't look amused at all. He rushes over, followed by other guys. The four of them stop dead, unsure of what to do.
Will, big and menacing as ever, stands beside me, and I see him glare at Taylor with pure contempt.
"If you don't want to get into serious trouble, I suggest you leave," he says, his voice so cold that even Taylor seems to falter.
The rugby players look at each other, uncertain. Taylor watches them for a long moment, then, with a scornful grin, takes a step back.
"This isn't over, Mason. You'll get what you deserve, I promise you."
They look at me for a few more seconds, then fade back into the shadows.
My body throbs with pain, but inside I know that, at least for that night, I managed to survive.
Will helps me back up, resting a hand on my shoulder.
"I saved your life, bro!" he tells me, half-smiling.
I weakly smile back, knowing that despite everything, I've survived another battle. But the war with Taylor is far from over.