Page 27 of Scary Suitor

Chapter Seven

Alina

Valentine's is in two weeks. Time flies like a triathlete against nature launching obstacles, not wanting me to win, and it makes little sense because freedom is near.

The outcome and the winner don’t matter.

If I win this atrociousgame- doubt it’s still called that - then I get to live my life with Cassio doing everything to sabotage it. He will continue to try, same as before, and a new type of game will begin; something more permanent, possibly sinister.

If he wins, which has been the most adversely foreseen outcome, he—

That’s the problem; I don’t know what he gets from this. The thrill of the chase? Sick glee from how pathetic I act? Mockery of the societal disparity between a helpless, pathetic, poor girl and a wealthy man using his money to do whatever he wants with no consequences?

He has been breathing down my neck with his uncanny attention, burying me under cryptic but expensive gifts, and worming into my life with a constrictor knot around my heart.

Cupid got a wrong caliber arrow, pierced it into the center of my chest, and broke my ribs open. Fate was there to fix the damage, brushing away the chipped bones and stringing my vulnerable heart with flawed black strings because it ran out of red strings.

They had a quota to meet.

Instead of a lovely couple they’ve coerced together, it’s a fanatical monstrosity and his weeping sacrifice.

It’s okay, though; a match made in heaven is absolute. Nothing is perfect, so a minor mistake is forgiven.

Who hasn’t slipped up at work?

If it was just about work, I wouldn’t be contemplating shaving my hair to stop my hands from pulling on it.

I’m contemplating what the hell happened during… well, my life crisis revolves around questioning just about everything.

After that incident, one where I froze and panicked, I haven’t seen a hair of him. I’m still confused, scared, and desperate for answers.

I can’t deny that my body tingles, wetting my panties when I think about grinding on his hard abs. But my brain absolutely refuses to acknowledge I feel anything but hatred toward Cassio.

And it’s correct. He uprooted my life, forcing unjustifiable pressure and fear on me for an entire year.

So, what changed? When did a significant number of walls break down? How did my body start accepting Cassio’s powerful touch without me knowing?

Why do I miss his awful smirk, horrible teasing, and alluring voice?

Putting aside the detestable things he has done, the answer is almost juvenile. And I actually laugh out loud when it clicks in my head. He wants to date me and thought the bizarre courting rituals were the way to go.

Of course, the dating part is stretching it. He wants my attention, or else he wouldn’t be bothering me with his ludicrous behavior.

There is a slim chance or a high possibility, depending on how I look at it, that he is bored. A game is just that; there is no ulterior meaning, and reading between the lines is for fools.

I don’t know why the thought makes me sad.

Under normal circumstances, my social circle would never touch his. My friends are the type to sit on the floor with opened bags of chips, pop soda, and heated gossip about what Jane, the beautiful girl who thinks she’s plain, did with John, the asshole bad boy because of his troubled past, in the motorcycle shop, where he’s sweaty with two jumpsuit buttons unfastened.

Who needed romance books when we had high-school love? There were breakups, lover’s quarrels, and get-togethers every minute. Even the auditorium air smelled like “perish, unrequited love of mine” and a side of “conspiracy theory: anguished harmonica noises at 11:43 am.”

Jane and John’s story didn’t end at graduation; it spiraled into college and on social media accounts. Their love story is still going up in flames, and damned if I don’t religiously binge-watch them like a sensational TV drama.

Now, I’m the main character in my own film.

“Why can’t he walk up to me and ask for a chat over coffee?” I mumble, banging my forehead on the table.

The computer monitor shakes, the pens in the cup rattle, and my chair groans from the extra weight.

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