~2~

STRANGER.

XIMENA.

“She’s actually the famous model that got ditched last night. The news is all over town.”

I heard a voice say—more loud voices followed, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

“Check her temperature,” I heard a male voice say.

Where was I? I tried opening my eyes, but they felt heavy. I couldn’t move either.

“There’s no information about her. Someone brought her here—we couldn’t get any info from him,” a feminine voice said this time.

I opened my eyes. At first, it wasn’t clear, but after blinking a few times, I could finally make out objects and people.

A man in a white lab coat. Nurses in blue. Green curtains.

I was at the hospital.

“She’s awake,” one of the nurses said, pointing at me.

The doctor came close and opened my eyelids with his fingers, flashing a torchlight into them.

“Where am I?” I asked. It was obvious, but I needed to be sure.

“At St. Agnes Hospital. You were brought in last night by a young man who refused to give any information about himself. You’ve been unconscious since then.”

“Why would I be uncon—” For a moment, I had forgotten the cruelty of my reality. I bit back my words in anger and embarrassment.

I stood up and detached the drip, grabbing my bag and pulling the blanket off my body.

“You can’t leave yet—we still have to check how you’re doing,” the doctor said, trying to stop me. But he wasn’t quick enough. I was already at the door before he could touch me.

“I’m fine. I’ll be fine,” I said and ran out of the ward, out of the hospital, and into the city.

I needed to get home. The memories of last night had returned, and it still hurt—it felt like a sledgehammer was constantly being plunged into my chest.

I walked down the street, tears dripping from my eyes—enough to earn weird stares from passersby.

I ran all the way to my little apartment. I couldn’t remember the last time I came here.

Since Dean and I got serious, I had been staying over at his place—but that wasn’t enough to make him loyal. He had been seeing someone else the whole time.

I picked up my phone and turned it on. There were missed calls from Madison, from my agency—but none from Dean.

He didn’t think I deserved an explanation. He didn’t even bother to check if I was okay.

I tapped on my I*******m app and almost fainted when I saw the headlines.

“Dean, ex-boyfriend of popular model Ximena Branson, says they were never serious—it was a situationship they had both outgrown.”

“Popular model faints after finding her boyfriend proposing to someone else.”

“Two popular models clash over the same man, leaving one hospitalized.”

I threw my phone on the bed and opened my wardrobe, reaching for my box. I packed everything my hands could touch—shoes, clothes, bags.

I had to leave. I needed to leave everything behind if I wanted to stay alive for my modeling career. It was what I promised my parents—I wasn’t going to let anything ruin it. I wouldn’t be found miserable over a man who didn’t see my worth. And I definitely wouldn’t be the topic for bloggers.

Hey Madison, I’ll be going out of town for a while. I don’t know how long, but you’ll definitely hear from me again. Take care of yourself and chase your dreams. Thank you for everything.

I clicked send and turned off my phone. I was about to put it inside my handbag, but on second thought, I threw it into the waste bin and rolled my box outside the apartment.

I hoped Mexico had a new beginning for me.

---

MEXICO

It had been three weeks—three weeks of waking up every day struggling to stay alive when the only thing on your mind is to say goodbye to the earth and its cruelty.

I pulled the car in front of the bar and stepped out. I didn’t survive because living was fun. I survived because I had a life to live, and running away would make me a coward.

“What will I serve you, ma’am?” the barman asked.

I turned to look at him. “Two shots of tequila.”

This was the first time I had left my apartment in weeks. I had stayed indoors, counting down the days to Paris Fashion Week.

It was supposed to be my major comeback—an opportunity to show Dean and everyone else that I survived.

He pushed the two glasses in front of me, and I downed everything in one go.

“Two more.”

I had started a fitness class online and changed my diet so I’d be in good shape—but it still felt like I wasn’t doing enough. I needed more than that. I had to show him what he lost.

I picked up the glass close to me and emptied it into my mouth. It was stronger than the last drink—burning the inside of my throat.

“Fuck,” I cursed as I tried to keep everything down.

“I thought as much,” I heard a voice say—and the mocking tone was hard to miss.

I turned to see the most perfect green eyes staring back at me, making my legs weak. I didn’t know if it was my broken heart or the drinks, but I wanted to be buried deep inside those eyes.

“Do you want to eat me?” he asked, still looking at me, the sides of his eyes wrinkling with a smile.

Was he flirting with me?

“No, of course not,” I said and turned to face my drink. I picked up my glass of tequila and brought it to my mouth.

Out of curiosity, I looked back at him—and his eyes were still fixed on me.

“Come on, you don’t have to make it too obvious that you want to fuck me,” I said, emptying the glass into my mouth, shutting my eyes as I felt the familiar burn slide down my throat.

He chuckled.

“Is it something you’re up for?” he asked—and I could feel his breath behind my ear, sending chills down my body.

Things were going too fast—way too fast—but a part of me liked it. I wanted to see how things would turn out. If it was a game, I was willing to play it to the end.

“Then ask properly,” I said, trying to hide my nervousness. I honestly didn’t know how things would turn out.

“I want to fuck you,” he said, holding my hand and leading me out of the bar.

I followed him as his figure towered above mine. My eyes raked over his full body under the black shirt and jeans—I wanted to run my fingers down every part of him.

We stopped in front of a door. “VVIP” was inscribed on it. Who was this man? I knew next to nothing about him.

I followed him inside, and he shut the door. He stood in front of me and held my face. Suddenly, everything seemed wrong.

I tried to fight the feeling—and he must have noticed.

“Are you scared?” he asked, taking a few steps away from me.

The sudden absence of his hand on my face made me feel guilty. I had given the wrong sign.

I turned to leave but stopped. Maybe this one time, it wouldn’t matter. When we woke up in the morning, we’d both go our separate ways.

I turned back and walked to him, stood on tiptoe, and crashed my lips on his.

“Take off your clothes.”