Prologue

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“Marry me.”

Camila Cabello turned with a raised eyebrow, directing her attention towards the person who was sitting at one of the tables.

“I'm sorry... what?”

The rain poured violently onto the silver car parked infront of the café. Camila looked at the woman who had spoken, her hair and shirt were wet; her face was lit up by the lights.

The water sparkled in her y/h/c hair and on the wet shirt she wore, the local neon lights lit up her face, for a moment Camila was struck by her beauty.

Such a beautiful girl …

For a moment, just one moment, she fantasized about how her savior had arrived to free her, but with her luck, it was probably just someone who was making fun of her.

Camila gave her a suspicious look.

“So?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me?” she asked again.

There was a long moment of silence.

“Today is Thursday?”

“Friday.” the woman said.

“I'm sorry, I only get married to strangers on Thursdays.” Camila said filling her cup with coffee. “I'm afraid that will have to wait until next week.”

“Next week will be too late.” The woman stared at her for a long time, eyes lingering towards her breasts, then her legs and then returned to her face. “What the hell has happened to your hair?” she asked.

“That's none of your business.” she said, “And I like it.” she pointed running her hand through her brown hair.

The woman was a stranger, why the hell would she care what she thought about her hair?

“Drink your coffee, we close in twenty minutes.”

The fact that it was almost midnight reminded Camila of her most important problems, like the fact she had to find another apartment. No matter how many double shifts she did, she had struggled to find one place that she could afford, not with her salary. She was starting to think about moving, maybe to Los Angeles, or to ask for help from a few friends. It would of been easier if she had more than twenty-seven dollars in her bank account.

“You're perfect.” the woman said, “I have an offer for you.”

Camila rolled her eyes: she would have bet her mother that she had a proposal for her, but she wasn't sure it was something she would like. “Look, my feet hurt me, I haven't finished my shift yet and before I can go home I have to clean the kitchen, so if you don't mind ...”

“Be quiet and listen to me. How old are you?”

“You're a very persistent person.” Camila said. “I'm not sure if I like it.”

“Everyone tells me. Now, how old are you?”

Camila looked at her with curiously: she was a charming woman and from the clothes she wore and the car parked outside - it was definitely her car - probably very rich, spoiled and used to getting everything she wanted.

“Twenty ... five.”

The woman chuckled. “Nice try, sweetheart.”

“Twenty-one.” Camila muttered.

“I'm sure that sooner or later you'll say the right one.”

“Okay, okay.” Camila snorted. “Nineteen.”

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