OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

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HE STROLLS THE HALLWAY of her house silently for a few moments, Bella quick on his step, the sound of her heels clicking the marble. She regrets wearing heels now — her steps are nowhere near as quick as his long, assuring strides.

Even the back of his neck is magnifying. The jacquard of his jacket shines off of the brilliance of the lights on the high ceilings.

   "Do you always dress like that?"

  He asks the question without stilling or stopping his pace. Breathless, Bella attempts to slow down her erratic heartbeat. Excuse me? — she thinks quickly.

  "Like what?" She breathes out.

   It seems as though he notices it that she cannot keep up — his pace comes to a halt, and he's facing her — all of a sudden, it's his eyes which reflect the brilliance of the chandeliers. He's looking her up and down, an eyebrow raised in question.

  "Like a doll. You want all these men back there to... take you?"

He notices, with a wicked smirk, how her cheeks flame up with hot pink. Bella Hadid cannot believe that he'd just asked her that. She watches as his bodyguards come to a still a few meters away from them.

    She doesn't say anything — she's choking on her own breathing. His scent is intoxicating. It's different tonight — notes of his masculine liquor mix with the scent of her own double vanilla from Guerlain and she feels her head spin.

"And yet," Abel continues, cocking his head to the side, eyes trained on the white collar of her dress, and lower, and lower— "you chose the boy."

    "I didn't choose him!" Bella bites back, having finally regained back her breathing. She blinks furiously and fights the need to pinch her cheeks, sleek down her ponytail, do something — anything to keep her vulnerable composure, a false equilibrium in the face of a predator.

  His eyes pin her down. "Whatever you say, kitten."

   Bella stomps her heeled foot, —"Stop calling me that!" —, and the sound ricochets off of the glass walls and windows and back into her ribcage, where her heart is. Where it should be.

She doesn't want him to.

   The Weeknd realizes it, for another grin enlightens his face before disappearing into a frigid mask. "You have the gesticulations of a spoiled ten-year old."

   "And you—you— the fashion sense of an old man!"

  Once she'd said it, Bella slaps her hand over her mouth in accelerated shock, her laugh escaping her fingers, regardless. She watches, a mix of terror and amusement within her, as Abel's eyebrows crawl up his forehead.

   There hangs a thick pause— in which Bella considers making a run for it. 
 
  "Shame that I don't have a belt with me." He says lowly, his voice a cold threat. His gaze slips like leather-gloved hands over her frame.

   "Why?" Bella takes a tentative step back. His eyes shoot to hers. She stops.

  Bella Hadid knows the answer perfectly.

  Without a word, he turns back around, his broad shoulders gleaming in black jacquard, and continues his way through the hallway. 

  She feels as though her cheeks are on fire. She's burning, — the collar of her dress suffocates her, she wants to strip down and jump into one of their indoor pools, drown in it until he leaves or joins her in the cool turquoise waters.
 
   Instead, Bella continues walking. Her heels click the marble floors once again.

As they pass the living areas, she notices the door of one of her father's cabinet left slightly ajar. Curious, for he rarely forgets to close it firmly behind him, Bella inches her head into the stripe of light which the lights of his office diffuse, and stills.
   With her peripheral vision Bella sees The Weeknd come to a halt as well. She can imagine him rolling his eyes.

"—no, today is a no. How many more times do I have to tell you?"

  Her father's voice is unbearably gentle, despite the wording of his slightly audible sentences — as if he's speaking to her, or her sister, or her bother. Except for he hadn't spoken to either of them like that ever since they'd grown up.

Bella lifts an eyebrow.

  "Soon. Soon, baby—" The last word is muffled, as if he's whispering it, unsurely, carefully. Bella's mouth parts open in raw incredulity. "Next week she's flying to Milan. I'll see." A pause. "I know. Can't wait either."

Bella feels her heart still. Around her, the world begins to lose its colours, its scents. Her mother's flying to Milan next week.

  She turns to break into a run— a run from what she'd heard, from what she'd realized, a run to her safe haven, a run to call Yvonne, lock herself up in her bathroom and never ever crawl out again— but instead, comes face to face with a white shirt and that jacquard jacket.

  He'd heard it, too. His eyes speak for himself — the cold gleams have melted, he's searching for something in Bella's face. If she didn't know better, she'd say that The Weeknd's worried about her.

  But Bella knows better. She feels her eyes prickle — not now, not here, please — and he slips his hand around her forearm securely, leading her away from the line of soft, warm light.

  From her father.