Crossed Desires

RECONCILIATION

Miguel

I grew furious just imagining her with someone else, smiling, talking, letting him persuade her to betray me.

"Miguel, please, don't start. Since when do I need your permission for anything? As far as I know, I'm not your wife," she says.

Not my wife? Of course she is. We don't need a ring to have a commitment. And yes, she does need my permission—because I won't allow her to do whatever she pleases. She is mine, she belongs to me, and she cannot go out with anyone, especially not with another man.

"Don't tell me not to start. The least I deserved was a call. And yes, you do have to ask my permission—last I checked, we're in a relationship," I reply angrily.

Her tone infuriates me. Overnight, she dares to defy me.

"First of all, I already told you my phone died. And second, yes, we are together, but that doesn't give you the right to decide what I can or cannot do," she shoots back, crossing her arms in defiance.

So now she's the one who's angry? Oh, how convenient. She can do whatever she wants, and I'm expected to swallow it in silence? No. I won't accept that. Ever. I'm her boyfriend.

"If your phone really died, then you shouldn't have gone out with anyone. We had plans for lunch, and I've been waiting for over an hour—as if I mattered less than your little friend," I retort, my fury mounting at the thought.

"I'm sorry, love... but it had been a while since I saw him. It would have been rude to turn down the invitation," she says.

Ah, so it's fine to turn me down, to leave me waiting. I'm seething. She should never have done that to me. I should come before anyone.

"Oh, so you can rudely leave me waiting? You don't need anyone inviting you anywhere," I snap.

The idea of her going off with who knows who to do who knows what makes my blood boil.

"Please, Miguel, stop already. I'm here, aren't I? Are we going or not?" she presses, frustrated.

I breathe deeply, trying to contain my rage. But it's hard to hold it in.

"Get in," I bark, my voice dripping with anger.

We leave her house reluctantly and drive to a restaurant near my apartment. I want to rest after lunch before heading to that damned dinner I no longer even feel like attending. I drive in silence, too angry to speak.

"Are you really going to stay mad and waste our time together?" she asks.

Of course. To her, it's normal because she wasn't the one left waiting. But if I had done the same, she'd have thrown me out in a heartbeat. Still, I love her too much to treat her as she treated me. So I answer coldly:

"Yes."

The wound to my pride still burns. She put someone else above me, and that I will never forgive. I should always come first.

"Miguel, what's wrong with you? Don't be like this," she says softly.

I try to control my voice, but my anger is impossible to disguise.

"What's wrong is that I've been working like a dog, and when I finally come to see my girlfriend, I find out she went off drinking with someone else," I spit out.

Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I can't stand the idea that she'd prefer anyone else's company over mine, knowing I'd give my life for her.

"But Miguel, why are you saying that? I wasn't alone—I was with my friends," she insists.

Her friends. Another issue altogether. They're a terrible influence on her. I know they were behind it all.

"That's the damn problem—they're a bad influence on you," I say sharply.

I've had enough of her girlfriends. Once we marry, they'll be the first thing to go.

"What are you talking about, love? That's not true," she protests.

She thinks I'm blind, but I know the truth. She misbehaves when she's with them.

"Don't deny it. I know what happens—you go partying with them and do things I hate. And all we do is argue because of it."

I'm no fool. I check their f*******:, i********:, all their social media. Their pictures tell me everything. I've seen the parties, the nights out—and that's how I know she lied to me.

When we arrive at the restaurant, she unbuckles her seatbelt, leans over, and kisses me softly on the lips.

"Love, I swear it's not like that," she whispers, conciliatory.

She may think she's convincing me, but I know the truth. I tolerate her friends only because I know she won't leave them—not yet. But once she's my wife, she'll have no choice but to accept it. Either they disappear from her life, or I'll make them.

"That's how it feels to me," I mutter.

We go inside, and at my request, the waiter takes us to a quiet table in the back. I order sirloin steak; she chooses a salmon Caprese salad.

"Wine?" the waiter offers.

"Yes, please," I reply.

"Any preference?"

"Aglianico red, please," I answer.

She moves her chair closer, touches my face with her hands, and gives me a gentle kiss on the lips. I can't resist. No matter how angry I am, I love her too much.

"Let's not fight anymore, please," she murmurs. "So, how did it go with your father?"

I sigh and tell her. "Good. He was very pleased with the deal I closed with the Arabs."

"That's wonderful," she says. "And your mother? How is she?"

"Also good, though she was upset I don't spend enough time with her," I admit.

"Love, I don't like to interfere in your work, but maybe you should ask your partners for more commitment—so you can have more time for yourself," she suggests.

She's right. Our problems also come from my lack of time. And I fear someone might take advantage of that.

"Yes, I know," I say, kissing her arm.

She's so patient with me. I give her so little, and she deserves so much. That's why I'm jealous. She's so beautiful, and I'm terrified someone might steal her from me.

We finish lunch, and I pay. Back at my apartment, she takes off her shoes and slips into one of my shirts. I can't stop staring at her.

I come up behind her, slide my hands under the shirt, and squeeze her hips. I kiss her hungrily. She responds with the same passion.

"Love, don't doubt me. I swear it was just a drink, nothing more," she insists.

But I can't focus on her words. I want her too much.

"Alright, I believe you. But don't ever do it again. I don't like you being with anyone else—I'm afraid someone will take you from me," I confess.

And it's true. I live with that fear every day. I can't wait for the moment she becomes my wife so I can put an end to this torment.

"Fine—but you need to trust me more," she says, kissing me.

Trust? Impossible. I'll never stop being jealous.

"I trust you—I just don't trust them," I reply, holding her tight.

"Oh, Miguel, why are you so insecure?" she whispers.

Because I love her. Because I can't bear the thought of losing her.

"Because I love you," I say, before kissing her deeply, again and again.

I lift her into my arms, carry her to the bed, and strip her urgently. Desire consumes me as I take her, wild with passion, until we reach our climax. Breathless, I crush my lips against hers, and she responds with equal hunger.

"I love you so much," I murmur.

We lie together, tangled, hearts racing. Later, we put on a movie in bed. In her arms, I finally drift off to sleep.

Dear readers, don't forget to vote and leave your comments—they give me the motivation to keep writing for you, with all my affection. I hope you enjoyed this chapter of Brat and Gaby.

Don't miss the next ones—they'll be even more intense.