I remember waiting by the car for Lawrence to come out of the Met when I first saw her. She was wrapped in the arms of another man, a man who looked at her as though she was a thing to be owned, to be possessed. I wondered what it would be like to have someone like her in my arms—what it would feel like.

At first sight, I knew she didn’t belong in my world. That women like her belonged in the arms of men like the blond man in the tuxedo. Powerful men with bank accounts big enough to buy small countries. I knew then that she was out of my league; that falling for a woman like her would only lead to my destruction. Even so, I couldn’t stop myself from momentarily thinking what if. It was the first time I’d wanted something that I couldn’t have—something unreachable. The first time I’d felt a stirring of something sinister in my chest, something that eats away at people, killing everything good inside of us.

Was it jealousy?

Envy?

Bitterness?

Yes. No. Maybe all of the above. Maybe none of the above. But what I do know is that it was the first time I resented my lot in life.

And it was all because of her.

But that’s the power that women yield on poor unsuspecting bastards. We go through life sort of numb, sort of alive, sort of content, sort of unhappy. Living life as only half humans until one day we meet a woman who completes us, who gives meaning to our pathetic existence and makes it worthwhile, enriching it with her laugh, with her smell, and the taste of her body. Days and nights spent with her become a string of moments embedded in our memory, never to be forgotten. She’s the air you breathe, the blood running in your veins. She is you as much as you are her, for she not only owns your body but she owns your soul. Until the day when she wakes up and realizes that you aren’t enough, that she wants something that you can’t offer her. So she leaves you, taking away not only your heart but your soul, too. And all you’re left with is the bitter taste of heartache.

I shake my head, smiling ruefully. Nothing like having a woman break one’s fucking heart to bring out the sad, pathetic poet inside all of us. I take one last drag of my cigarette and watch its tip blaze intensely before tossing it to the floor and stepping on it. Enough about Blaire and her witchcraft. Tonight, I plan to enjoy myself.

As I close the gap between the glass doors and me, there’s a tall woman with long blonde hair dressed in a tight black dress heading in my direction. We both stop a foot away from the metal handle bar. This close to her, it’s impossible not to admire the way her small tits outline the expensive silky material of her dress. When I lift my eyes to have a better look at her face, three things become obvious.

One: She’s hot as fuck.

Two: She’s watching me blatantly admire her without blinking an eye. But how could I not? It would be a crime not to. I lift a hand, running my fingers through my hair, and grin shamelessly.

And three: She’s older than me and in the prime of her life.

“Going in?” I ask.

Without saying a word, our gazes lock for a second or two before she looks away, dismissing me like an unwanted thought, and reaches for the door. I see her white, slender and perfectly manicured fingers wrap around the metal handle bar. Instinctively, I close my hand over hers and say, “No, please, allow me.”

She stares straight ahead and doesn’t move her hand. “I don’t need a man to open the door for me,” she says coolly, turning her head until her eyes meet mine. “I can do it myself.”

Ah. Even her voice is sophisticated like the rest of her. I’m not sure what comes over me, but I let go of the bar and reach for her hand, slowly peeling her fingers away one by one. Perhaps I just want to flirt with an attractive woman. Or perhaps she’s a challenge that I want to win.