CHAPTER 004
1307 Words
Chapter 004
Cristóbal Reyes’ point of view
Every morning, Cristóbal Reyes aspired to do the right thing and find harmony with the man who was looking back at him in the mirror. There were days when he wanted to vanish. On other days, he wished to be remembered for something positive, such as being a better man, father, or son. He wanted to feel... anything most of the time.
But it always seemed to reveal everything he was trying to conceal as the sunlight streamed through the gaps in his bedroom blinds. I'm sorry. Shame. Anger. His mansion lacked warmth and had an excessive number of rooms. He was said to have everything, including respect, wealth, and power, but no one ever enquired as to what he had given up to obtain it.
As the afternoon wore on, Cristóbal began to feel like a ghost, a person who exists only to survive. The weight of the past made his skin prickle. It was as if someone had pressed a knee against his constricted chest. Nevertheless, he donned the mask.
The outfit. The timepiece. The quiet.
He was skilled at projecting an air of indifference. But he was collapsing on the inside.
Cristóbal took solace in his solitude every evening after the meetings were over and the phoney smiles had subsided. Only the ticking of an old grandfather clock and the occasional clink of ice in his glass of scotch would be audible while he sat in the dark in his office. He was accompanied by the guilt. He stopped fighting it. The only thing that felt genuine was that.
Like a prayer, he muttered to himself, "I'm not sad."
He said it again, more firmly. "I'm not depressed."
Perhaps the truth would change if he repeated it enough. Perhaps the void in his chest would become something more substantial. But the emptiness persisted regardless of how many times he said it.
It wasn't the type of melancholy that inspires poetry. There was silence. heavy. like keeping a secret stone in your chest.
His days were planned: contracts made in blood and terror, warnings to rival cartels, meetings with dishonest politicians. He would try to recall what it was like to be loved while lying in bed at night with the sheets drawn up to his chest.
People were afraid of Cristóbal Reyes. brutal. Untouchable and cold.
However, we frequently mean that someone is deeply hurt when we say that they are cold.
El Don, Cristóbal, was also drowning in agony.
Too many people had died for him. There are too many unfulfilled promises. He couldn't forget too many faces. Somewhere beneath the debris of his past lay his heart. And yet it came back every morning. a bit more substantial. A bit more subdued. but it's still beating.
The weight would have caused some people to collapse. It was like armour to Cristóbal.
Then she showed up.
Her name was unknown to him. Not just yet. But time stopped when he saw her.
It was just another café. On a typical morning, just another stop. But there she was, laughing quietly with the barista beside her behind the counter. She didn't laugh aloud. Like a melody played in a memory, it was gentle. He paused because of something that pulled at him.
Nor was she ostentatious. It was the kind that caught you off guard. Warm honey skin, soft curves, and eyes that seemed to have seen sorrow but still decided to love. Her heart-shaped face was framed by a few loose strands of her long strawberry-blonde hair that was pulled back into a low ponytail.
She blew lightly on her newly painted red nails as she reached across the counter. The straightforward motion was elegant, feminine, and vibrant.
Cristóbal gazed, momentarily losing his identity. forgetting who he was.
They looked at each other when she looked up.
She blinked.
He did, too.
Then, tentatively, sweetly, like a candle being lit in a cold room, she smiled.
He was plagued by that smile for the remainder of the day.
Who was she?
Unaware that she had just completely upended the most dangerous man in the city, he watched as she turned to take an order, her body moving with lightness and ease.
Cristóbal remained motionless while his driver waited outside. Staring at her like a man who has been starved, he stood motionless with his hand on the café's glass door. He was drawn not only to her physical appearance but also to the apparent light emanating from within her.
He had the option to enter. could have asked for her name. She could have purchased the café and forced her to work only when he requested coffee.
However, he didn't.
Because power wasn't enough for once.
He was not the kind of man she deserved. She was worthy of unguarded smiles. No bulletproof vests, just hugs. She was entitled to pancakes and corny jokes in the morning, not calls about who should die.
Nevertheless, he kept thinking about her.
He requested that his security detail identify her.
Márquez, Selene.
Twenty-two. student at a university. resides with a cat and her older sister. no criminal history. She helps cover her mother's medical expenses by working part-time at the café.
Cristóbal treated each line as though it were a piece of poetry. As if every sentence offered a new opportunity to delve deeper. She was innocent. Gentle. Excellent.
She was the one thing he could never have, of course.
However, he desired her.
He wanted her so badly.
He visualised stroking her hair with his fingers and stroking her cheek with the back of his hand. He pictured her voice as she lovingly whispered someone's name. He pictured her lying beside him, not out of duty or fear, but because she wanted to.
Cristóbal, however, had never been selected. He was served by others. feared him. obeyed him.
He was never loved.
And Selene would flee if she knew who he truly was and what he had done.
His stomach twisted at the thought.
He paced his office in an attempt to calm the internal conflict.
She was his to have. He had the money. The strength.
She would be in his mansion in a single word. wearing silk clothing. Considering all of her dreams.
aside from freedom.
aside from choice.
However, it had nothing to do with lust. It had nothing to do with ownership. It had to do with that fleeting instant when she grinned at him without recognising him. Instead of El Don, she saw Cristóbal. And for an instant, he no longer felt like a monster but rather like a man.
He struck the desk with his fist.
Oh no. What had she done to him?
He stared at the picture his team had taken of her.
This is not how a man should feel about someone he hardly knew. No woman should have to endure the repercussions of attracting his attention.
However, it was too late.
She had given him a smile. And now, at least in his imagination, she was his.
She would not be touched.
Nobody was going to take her away from him.
He would shield her from the outside world. even if it meant keeping her out of it.
He was aware that she would not voluntarily come. That was the issue.
He had used treachery and blood to establish an empire. However, this girl was his weakness.
Furthermore, a man such as he deserved no weakness.
But now he had one.
And he would stop at nothing to keep her near him.
even if it meant forcibly removing her.
Because there were no happy endings for monsters like him.
However, Selene Márquez was the only light his darkness wished to preserve, and they could steal bits of heaven.
- Writer
