OLDER MEN | THE WEEKND

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    HE FEELS IT IN her shoulders as they tremble — her inability to move. The collar of her dress is tight against the delicate porcelain of the girls neck — The Weeknd notes out the red from where it touched her skin.
  There's something purely intimate about the gaze he throws at her neck.

Animalistic.

He's glad she doesn't see it.

There's a desire in him to comfort her, but it's battling with a deeper, darker carnal necessity. He pushes the thought out of his head before it grows its phantom roots.

She's trembling with sobs, they're crawling up her throat and choking her words, which he still hears clearly — there's the intonation of a petulant child in her still, regardless of how broken her heart is, — like a little girl who's about to stop her foot to get her way.

   But Bella doesn't want to get her way. She wants to get away. She wants to shatter the panoramic glass doors which encase her, cage her in this house, the house she'd loved so ardently back when her father loved her mother, — she thinks, horrified — how long has this been going on for? — before spilling her eyes out into The Weeknd's shirt.

  He leads her through the corridors, cold and certain, as if he knows this house better than her. Bella imagines another woman walking these corridors and feels her knees go weak.

  "Kitten—" his soft baritone is all that keeps her afloat. He peels her off of his chest like a real-life kitten and makes her tear-stained face gaze right into his. Bella thinks, although she has tears clouding her eyes, that there's a shade of concern in his. "—I'm sorry you had to hear that. Be serious. You know nothing. Understand?"

  Bella opens and closes her mouth. She can't speak.

  Abel waits patiently for a few seconds before running his hands down from her shoulders to her elbows. It's meant to be a comforting gesture — and yet, why does she feel as though it's something else in its dark and twisted entirety? "Yes? Understand?"

   She divulged a croaked "I understand" before lowering her gaze to the marbled floors. She doesn't feel rage, no, — it's enveloped too deeply into sadness, betrayal, pain. "Why not just confront him about it?" Bella asks nonetheless, finally having gathered up the courage to look up.

  The corridors are unlit. In the darkness, his eyes are gleaming like those of a predator. She notices how their gaze runs like rivulets down from her chin to her neck.

"This isn't your confrontation." His voice is cool and calm and collected. How can he be?

     "He's my father."

"He's Mohammed Hadid."

     "And I'm Bella—"

"Isabella," The Weeknd corrects with a smirk, —

     "—Hadid, and you're not going to tell me what to do about my cheating mess of a father!" Finally, she feels it, — the rage rushing to her bones, filling up her bloodstream.

Abel's grin disappears.

  He takes a step forward, — a dangerous, calculated step. "Now listen to me, Isabella. You're not exactly in a favorable position." His voice is a cold staccato. "Your father will deny all accusations you place on him. Besides, would you like it for your mother to find this out during a dinner... like this?" 

   Bella opens her mouth to speak, and yet, nothing comes out except for a barely audible sigh.

   "I don't know what to do," she finally whispers, her emotions in a rollercoaster worse than Baden-Baden's blue fire. "Abel,"—she feels rather than sees him stiffen at the mention of his name from her trembling lips—"I don't know what to do."

  There's a pause, in which she considers running away and locking herself up in the library and drowning herself in old school romances and vampire stories and everything nonsensical and frivolous.

"Your number."

Bella blinks. "What?"

   The Weeknd's phone is out of his pocket, a luxurious black screen lighting up with the background of a hieroglyph she cannot yet decipher.

  He raises an eyebrow. "Your number, kitten. I want it."

    She can feel her cheeks heating up and her knees about to go weak. Bella's mind is racing — far too much has happened in the last hour for it to be at rest ever again. "I—"

  "I'm leaving now. I want to know that you won't do anything stupid to yourself." There it is again, — the condescending, partially threatening tone to his voice. The irrevocable trait of an older man, a man experienced in women and their reactions and actions and consequences.

    "I'm—"

    "If you won't give it to me," The Weeknd's eyes are on his screen, his fingers tapping away leisurely, "I'll find it out anyway. And you, kitten,"— he raises his gaze for a split second, "know that."

    He hands her his phone — Bella can see her contact saved as simply "Hadid", which is a needle in her ego. She shakes off the thoughts before typing in her number. "I'm not a little girl, Abel."

  "You little girls always say that." He plucks the phone out of her hand before sliding it into the breast pocket of his jacket. "I have to leave now, kitten. Will you be alright on your own?"

  "Very funny."

   If there was a shadow of a smile on his face, it is gone now. "I asked you a question."

  There's something in his gaze that owns her.

   And she wants it to. Desperately. "Yes. Of course."

    "I'll call you."

Bella smirks. "I'll be waiting."

   The shadow of amusement flashes in his eyes before they turn back to obsidian. "Be safe, kitten."

And so, Bella lies for the second time that evening.

  "I will."