Rage

♠THIRTY TWO♠

• Raquels De Silva •

Turns out this party was a lot more important than I thought, because somehow Sal agreed. Agreed to going to this uncalled, irrelevant party. And Salvatore Camara doesn’t agree to things he considers irrelevant. Not unless there’s a reason. Not unless there’s something deeper brewing beneath the surface.

That alone should have warned me.

I wore a deep emerald green dress with gold embroidery stitched delicately all over it. The fabric clung to me in all the right places, the bodice fitted, almost corset-like, sculpting my waist and hips with precision. It wasn’t tight enough to suffocate, but tight enough to command attention.

The kind of dress that makes a room pause.

It had thin straps and a clean neckline, exposing just enough skin to suggest elegance rather than desperation. Simple in structure, refined in cut but the gold detailing elevated it. The thread shimmered under the light like liquid sunlight woven into silk. It didn’t scream expensive. It whispered it.

No surprise that this dress was just waiting around in Sal’s closet.
What baffles me the most is how he gets my measurements perfectly. Every. Single. Time. As if he memorized the architecture of my body. As if he studies me when I’m not looking.

I attempted to style my hair as well. I didn’t have enough gel to slick it into something dramatic, so I settled for a half-up messy bun. Effortless but intentional. The loose hair cascading down my back fell into defined curls, framing my shoulders. Soft but structured.

Controlled chaos.

I stood in front of the mirror longer than necessary. Observing. Assessing.
Proud.

My makeup was sultry, dark feminine, per usual. Smokey eyes that made my stare heavier, lashes thick and intentional. Nude gloss, sharp contour, gold highlight catching against my cheekbones. I looked like I belonged in the Kardashian family. I looked like a supermodel.

No.

I looked dangerous.

All of this drama made me forget how much of a badass I actually was. Somewhere between pride and panic, I forgot that I don’t break easily. I bend. I observe. I survive.

A sharp knock snapped me back to reality.

Right. Sal was waiting outside.

“I’m done,” I call out, smoothing invisible wrinkles off my dress.
The door cracks open.

Sal stands there in a tailored black suit, sharp and merciless. The jacket sits perfectly on his shoulders, hugging his frame like it was custom-built, which it probably was.

His black hair is slicked neatly back, exposing the severity of his features. Clean. Controlled. Calculated.
He looks like sin dressed for a business meeting.

“I’m starting to think you don’t really know the meaning of the word space,” I state, grabbing my purse and brushing past him.

Immediately, I turn around.

he’s right there, Standing directly in front of me. Too close. Too aware.