The Butterfly Effect

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"Don't ask me

What you know is true

Don't have to tell you,

oh, I love your precious heart,

I was standing,

You were there

Two worlds collide

And they could never, ever tear us apart—"

The blue roses sat on the kitchen table, and a pair of pink, plump lips smirked.

"Babe, who's that from?" A man strolls into the room, towel in his hair and clean clothes fitted onto him like a glove. He gave the woman a hearty kiss before rounding to the fridge on the other side and pouring himself a glass of water.

"A gift, from a friend congratulating us for the engagement," the woman said, eyes too far away to be admiring the flowers like her fiancé believes.

She smoothly folded the name card and tucked it into the center of her palm, out of sight.

It was a gift, but not one of congratulations. No, the words written were too delightfully sinful, to ever be something so innocent. Only after her fiancé left the room, she brought the card to her lips. Oh, she could smell him. His cologne, his aftershave, his heavy gaze. She could almost see him, pen grinding into the paper so hard it had left indents on the card. She wondered how many tries it had taken him to not rip the paper with the tip of his fountain pen.

Congratulations Mr. & Soon to be Mrs. Vanders.

He hadn't even sighed the card, but she knew it was him. Only her sweet Roro could put so much hatred into a handful of simple words. Her smile widened as she imagined him, broken, angry, but she also reminisced about him under her, mouth gaped as he took her in, flesh in flesh. Oh, how she missed her beloved Roro, her very first love, the same boy she grew up with and left shattered in pieces.

Only he could remember how she loved blue and her aversion for roses. It was so like him to dance around the edges of love and hate. The two emotions had many similarities she found; both brought out passion and lust.

Unlocking her phone, she glanced at the picture that was taken last night. It was obscured and someone was blocking off half of the image, but the other half was clear.

The handsome man faced the camera but never looked straight into the shot... because he was facing a woman she didn't recognize, sitting at a secluded table in a romantic rooftop restaurant. He looked at her with such intensity, lost in thought... The card was crushed in her palm. That woman's face was never revealed.

Oh, Roro was hers, and nobody else's. She was a goddess, a demon, an angel, the devil. But most of all, she was possessive; her broken hearts were collectibles on an endless shelf displayed like trophies, and the men and women who once held them in their chests were on a leash, on their knees at her hand.

She did not like petty thieves, ones who steal from her. Just because one had bitten through his collar doesn't mean he can't be caught again.

Yes, maybe it was time for a visit.

Her robe dangled to the ground as she sashayed to her bedroom, bare midnight skin gleaming. Her reflection in her bedroom floor-length was breathtaking, and she knew it. Supple breasts perking in the air, tiny waist rippling with muscle, rounded hips with not a single unwanted hair from her toes to her straight hairline. Her sinful eyes were a charming golden, and her originally bouncy curls were permed and straightened to silky perfection. Her legs went on for miles and her nails shone with polish.

This woman knew she did not have a single physical flaw, not on her smooth skin without scar, cellulite or stretch-marks, nor her perfectly dyed hair, nor her athletically curvy figure. She knew she was perfect.

With her conceit larger than her ego, she ran a finger down her body. She had practiced and tried until her seduction was absolute, her moans edging anyone to climax, her hips flexible in a way most women's weren't, the dart of her tongue deadly.

With a last glance, she opened the doors to her closet and ran a hand down her priceless dresses and blouses as she walked down. This room contained her masks, from Ralph Lauren to Louboutin to Louis Vuitton. This was her arsenal.

When her eyes flitted to a Versace dress, she smiled. That was it, that was the one.

She would make Roro hers again, if not just to feel that fire burn in his chest up close.

In a world that held nothing she wanted, this woman had discovered something that brought out her true potential. Nothing could replace the sweet-sour of a broken heart. The bitterness, the hatred, the desire... It fulfilled her. She lived for luxury and the ownership of men through their hearts and cocks. Nothing would take that away from her. Not an unrevealed woman in a photograph, and certainly not her Roro in love again.

She would make sure he could never truly love anyone else. This time when she leaves him, she'll be the last woman to taste the salt of his tears.