I am so sorry.
Calling him a beautiful man would be an understatement; he was the most beautiful human that could exist.
Despite the darkness of the alley, I could see him perfectly as I stood so close to him. I wouldn't compare his beauty to that of any celebrity or model. No, he didn't resemble a Michelangelo sculpture carved from stone, nor did he look like a Greek god. He didn't resemble any of the fictional men I daydreamed about, nor did he remind me of any of my past crushes.
His face was perfect. It had soft features, yet it exuded masculinity with its sharp V-shaped jawline, cleft chin, and high cheekbones, all cleanly shaven. A few strands of dark, slightly wavy hair cascaded from his head and brushed against his forehead, partially concealing his eyes.
His eyes—his eyes were something to die for. They were perfectly blue, gently glowing in the dim light of the alley, framed by long, dark lashes. His eyes had the ideal hue and shade of blue—not too light, not too dark. In the darkness, his skin appeared tan, darker than the average Italian but lighter than my own Bengali complexion. Even though I considered myself fair in my country, he was fairer than me. Veins traced an upward path on his arms, visible as one of his hands gently clasped my arm.
Both mischief and kindness danced in his gaze as he fixed his eyes on my face. There was a small, wicked grin on his perfect, pouty lips. Maybe I was staring at him too intently because he seemed to notice my awe.
A faint blush tinged his cheeks, and he lowered his gaze away from me. Then, with a mischievous expression, he turned his attention to the group of men.
My jaw dropped on the street.
For a brief moment, I forgot where I was. It felt as if he and I were the only two people in the universe. My heart fluttered with indescribable emotions.
"Sure she's yours? She looked like a whore."
The leader replied to him from that group of goons. I jumped out of my pondering sense and heard what they called me.
Whore.
A man, never knowing me called me a whore.
In that moment, 20 years of trauma flashed before my eyes, and the word echoed in my ears. Whore. Yes, I was a whore indeed.
The buzzing sound returned, louder and more persistent than before. My heart pounded in my chest like a thunderclap, and my other arm, where those vile men had touched me, felt like it was on fire.
"That's none of your concern," another smooth male voice warned from behind us. I noticed him ever so slightly raising his jacket, revealing two guns tucked into his holster. I couldn't focus on his face, as he seemed vaguely Italian. I was nearly vibrating with anger and disgust.
The group of goons slowly faded from my view, and the buzzing in my head grew even louder. I started to lose track of where I was and what had just happened.
The only thing that kept repeating in my mind was that goon's foul breath, his disgusting touch on my body, and the derogatory name he had called me.
Whore.
Whore.
Whore.
The words kept echoing inside my head, relentless and unyielding, drowning out any attempt to silence them. My hands began to shake uncontrollably, and sweat poured from my trembling palms.
"Do you need us to take you somewhere safer?"
The beautiful man spoke with genuine concern in his voice, but it sounded distant and muffled, as if I were underwater. I didn't even notice when he let go of me. Another man with a gun approached, asking, "Miss, are you alright?" He had an American accent and a deep sense of concern in his voice.
I started to regain some awareness of the dark alley, the people, and the surroundings, but everything appeared hazy, like a blurred dream. My head throbbed with the relentless pounding of my heart.
I had no idea when I left those two kind strangers behind in that dark alley and found myself standing in front of the bustling street. I spotted a taxi and waved frantically to catch its attention. When it finally stopped, I jumped inside.
"Where to, Signora?" The taxi driver demanded, his voice sharp with impatience.
I had completely forgotten the name of the hotel.
"Where?" he barked again, thinking I might be deaf.
"Caelus... Hotel Caelus!"
I practically screamed in response.
The taxi driver was startled by my sudden outburst but wisely chose to remain silent. Without a word, he started the engine and drove off. I looked at my trembling hands and felt a rush of anger replace the fear that had gripped me. As we approached the hotel entrance, I paid the driver and quickly made my way inside, avoiding eye contact with anyone. I was afraid that if I looked at someone, I might lose control and unleash my pent-up rage on them. My fury was building up inside me, rising from the pain I had kept hidden for so long.
Once in my room, I wasted no time. I undressed, turned on the cold water in the bathtub, and submerged my entire body, including my head, in the water. I needed to cool down and regain control; otherwise, I might snap and harm someone tonight. I held my breath, keeping my chest still.
After what felt like an eternity, I came up for air. My body was now cooled, but my anger had turned into a cold, seething rage. I couldn't help but regret my earlier passivity.
I am not a lamb.
I was never a lamb.
I am a huntress, a Viper, a feared deity of death.
Poison courses through my veins instead of my blood. Every soul should tremble before me, for I am to be feared above all else.
And I despised myself for having acted like a frightened, whimpering child. I longed to unleash a scream, to roar with anger, but I could not.
I live in a society where acting normal is a necessity.
The spot where that bastard had touched me began to itch and burn. I scrubbed my skin vigorously with a loofah, but the unpleasant sensation wouldn't go away.
I scrubbed even harder until my olive-toned skin turned a painful shade of pink. Tears welled up in my eyes as I clenched them shut, and in my mind's eye, I saw little Kaya crying hysterically in my heart. She was furious with me, asking why I hadn't done something and why I hadn't stopped them from tarnishing her with that vile word, "whore."
I made a heartfelt promise to her
The next time, when I saw those wretches, I would rip their tongues from their mouths and claw their windpipes out of their throats.
Little Kaya gazed at me with uncertainty, and I knew I had to regain her trust.
I had to.
My eyes stung as tears streamed down my face, and I cried uncontrollably while I scrubbed soapy hands against them.
I couldn't tell how long I had spent crying, but eventually, I managed to calm down after spending a significant amount of time in the bath.
I finished cleaning myself in the shower and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a beautiful woman celebrating the last two days of her twenties. Her eyelids were red and swollen, and the whites of her eyes had turned crimson from crying.
I had never felt attractive; I had never thought of myself that way. My mother had berated me for being overweight and pretty when I was a child, telling me it attracted people who would take advantage of me and that I was a disgrace to her—a mere pawn for fulfilling my father's ambitious dreams.
I had loathed myself for so long and so deeply.
I had worked relentlessly to learn self-love. During my early teens, I had shed weight dramatically, battling anorexia, and people had mistaken it for a severe illness. I had reacquainted myself with the principles of healthy eating, cooking, and gaining weight.
I had also rediscovered how to feel attractive, how to apply makeup skillfully, and how to dress elegantly.
My top priority in life was to be beautiful, to feel beautiful, and to make those around me feel beautiful too.
I could not allow a group of thugs from another country to ruin my birthday vacation. I convinced myself to calm down so that I could get a peaceful night's sleep.
____________________________________________________
The next morning, I quickly figured out why this room had come at a quarter of the regular price.
It was situated directly east, which meant the early morning sunbeams flooded the room with blinding brightness. I woke up suddenly, my deep slumber disrupted, and hurried to the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony to close the curtains. Thankfully, the curtains were thick enough to block out the daylight.
I felt frustrated because I had hoped to sleep in until 10 a.m. that day. However, my plans were foiled by a pounding headache that had settled in and shattered my tranquility.
The complimentary breakfast bar was open until 11 a.m., so I reluctantly shook off my disheveled state and got ready to go down to the lounge. I opted for a summer dress—a white satin silk dress with intricate blue patterns reminiscent of traditional Iranian architectural designs. I grabbed my book but remembered a piece of advice from Julia.
"Don't read sad books on happy vacations."
With that in mind, I retrieved my Sarah J. Maas book, the first novel in the Crescent City series. I had been eagerly anticipating reading it during this trip, so I had packed all three Crescent City novels in my luggage.
As I had promised myself, I was determined not to dwell on what had happened the previous night. I was in a brighter mood and ready to embrace the day.
I strolled toward the breakfast bar, passing through the lobby. Julia wasn't at her post; perhaps it wasn't her shift, or she was in her general manager's office. The breakfast bar was located directly across from the side of the hotel where my room was. It featured buffet stations and indoor seating, as well as the option to dine outside.
The outdoor dining area faced north, providing a stunning view of the lake, which glistened in the morning sun's embrace like a million diamonds scattered on the water, each one sparkling brilliantly.
I chose some classic Italian breakfast items, opting for something light as I planned to have lunch at Zafferano later in the day.
As I savored my delightful frittata, I couldn't help but people-watch at the buffet. Many of them seemed affluent, with some being millionaires and others billionaires. Judging by their attire and behavior, it was apparent that fashion wasn't their strong suit. Some men were accompanied by their sugar babies, daughters, or much younger girlfriends. There was even a woman with noticeably large breast implants that drew the attention of every man and quite a few women. It was a rather intriguing spectacle.
It seemed like everyone had come to Lake Como not only to appreciate the lake's beauty but also to witness a display of various assets.
After finishing my breakfast, I grabbed a coffee and headed to the outdoor deck, where there were chairs and tables for guests. I found a spot with some shade, opened my book, took a sip of my coffee, and let the gentle breeze from the lake ruffle my thick, wavy hair. I was well aware that I looked quite attractive, and it was clear that people were noticing me. Not to brag, but I knew I was looking very pretty.
This newfound sense of self-esteem, with a hint of confidence, made me feel fantastic once more.
The lake's water had a captivating shade of blue, with only a few boats in the distance. Above, birds chirped in the branches of lemon trees. Some of the trees even had yellow lemons hanging from them, and I could catch a whiff of their fragrance from my seat.The sky stretched out in a breathtaking expanse of blue, not a single cloud in sight.
The water gently lapped at the base of the mountains on the distant shore, painting a picturesque scene in beautiful shades of blue.
My dress featured an intricate blue Iranian design.
His eyes were gorgeous blue.
The streetlights, and moving car lights reflected and danced in his blue eyes like a thousand stars falling from the night skies.
I jolted up from my imagination.
Oh, my goodness! I had completely forgotten about him. He was the one who came to my rescue last night when those men were harassing me.
I tried to recall all the events from yesterday. My brain had this remarkable ability to filter out unnecessary information and memories that triggered fear in me. It was a skill I had developed over the past 11 years in the medical field—6 years as a student and 5 years as a professional. After my emotional breakdown last night, I had almost forgotten everything, including the faces of those thugs. But I distinctly remembered the face of the most handsome man I had ever seen. For a brief moment, I might have forgotten who I was and where I was.
Then I realized that I couldn't recall his face exactly; his image was slowly fading away. I knew that if I ever saw him again, I wouldn't recognize him by sight alone. However, I remembered the description of his facial features – another gift from my medical career. Doctors may not remember the exact images of clinical features, but we remember the theory so well that we can connect the dots when we see a patient with a critical condition.
But what I remembered most vividly was his fragrance.It made my heart skip a beat. I had never imagined I would feel anything like this in my life.
A thousand butterflies fluttered inside my heart, and my cheeks flushed.
Then a heavy cloud of guilt settled over me. I hadn't even thanked him and his friend yesterday for saving me.
I felt terrible! How could I find him again?
As I was lost in my thoughts, a jarring scraping sound from behind startled me. I turned to see two men scrubbing with steel brushes on the cobblestone path while another man in a hotel uniform supervised them. They put in their utmost effort, making the stones gleam. The supervisor spotted me and, tipping his cap, bowed slightly.
"Sorry, Signora," he said, "our owners will arrive on the premises tomorrow, and we need to clean all the areas."
"The Volkswagens?" I blurted out, realizing my mistake immediately. I knew their name was not Volkswagens; I was just an idiot who could not remember it correctly.
The supervisor burst into laughter, looking at my confused expression, and managed to regain his composure after a minute.
"No, Signora, not Volkswagen, but The Volkners. Mrs. Volkner and her son are already in Italy. Mr. Royce Volkner will join them here soon. As for when, I'm not sure, but there's a chance they'll arrive the day after tomorrow."
Ah, just in time for my birthday, I thought.
"Do we have to do anything?" I inquired.
"You? What do you want to do? You're not an employee!" the supervisor replied, sounding puzzled.
"Well, like... Should I maintain certain manners or anything in front of them? Like... keeping my room clean?" I asked.
The supervisor sighed, "Signora, first of all, you're a guest. If your room is dirty, that's the room service team's responsibility, not yours. Second, our owners are regular people, not royalty. Just enjoy your vacation. It would make them, and us, happy. Customers come first here. Feel free to make your room as messy as your heart desires."
I nodded with a smile. I tended to worry too much about my manners. It's the way I was raised.
"Where are they from? Are they Italian?" I asked, changing the topic.
"You don't know anything about the Volkners?" the supervisor asked, sounding surprised.
I shook my head.
"They are one of the most powerful families on earth. They're Swiss, you know, from Switzerland," he informed me. His tone seemed to suggest that I should have known this vital information about our employer. He might have continued with more information, but someone yelled at him from behind, interrupting our conversation.
"Anton! Anton!! Where are the new curtains?" Julia yelled at the supervisor.
Anton seemed like he wanted to shower me with more of Volkner's facts but Julia came rushing and cut him off, saying,
"Go get them; these are for Maria's suite! Make sure they're all properly ironed!" She urged him to leave me alone and almost walked away with him.
Then she noticed me and gasped with awe. She hurried over to me with quick, purposeful steps.
"Mi Amore, you will drive all these old billionaires crazy with your beauty!" Julia exclaimed, grabbing me by the shoulder and admiring my dress.
"So, I heard your bosses are coming," I mentioned to her. I felt bad for the tough days she would have ahead of her.
"Who? Rhys?" Julia asked, not appearing to care much.
"You know them personally?" I inquired.
"Yeah, why?" Julia responded, looking somewhat puzzled.
"I feel sorry for you having to handle a lot of rich, whiny billionaires, and now your billionaire bosses..." I said, attempting to offer some comfort. However, it seemed like Julia didn't care much about her employer's impending arrival. Her focus was solely on the new curtains.
Julia bobbed her head as if to stop me from speaking and then teased,
"Honey, they're not billionaires..." She chuckled.
Then what were they? Trillionaires? Was that even a thing?
"... besides, don't worry about them! They're sweeter than peaches; you'll never be able to tell the difference between them and a random, average person on the streets. If you knew them, you'd love them. They're very easygoing, non bothersome people!"
I smiled at her with a hint of bitterness, almost feeling like I was mocking her.
Yeah, sure, they might be sweeter than peaches.
I thought to myself.
I've read enough books about young, sexy billionaires falling in love with ordinary people like me, and all they seem to do is engage in BDSM and shower their partners with money that seems to fall from the sky. They have nothing better to do than be subservient lapdogs to their ordinary, pretty girlfriends, buying them expensive gifts and whatnot.
In reality, many of these wealthy older men whom girls fantasize about often suffer from conditions like erectile dysfunction, and they feel extremely insecure about it. As a surgical resident, I've had to deal with cases like this in our profession quite frequently. I mean, it's entirely normal to experience erectile dysfunction, but masking your condition by treating young women as if they were pets and secretly harboring self-hatred for having a condition that is normal for almost every man around the world is actually quite disturbing, in my honest opinion. Your illness is not a sign of weakness or part of your identity. Any sickness can happen to anyone, and nobody should feel guilty about it. Always feel comfortable discussing your condition with your healthcare professionals, no matter how shameful it may seem or feel. Doctors will never judge a patient, no matter what they're going through. It's part of our ethical code.
Julia looked at my puzzled expression and glanced at my half-empty coffee cup.
"I'll send you another coffee. Keep shining, Cara Mia! I've got work to do. We'll catch up after my shift." Julia left me to my thoughts and books.
The harsh scraping sound of the workers rubbing the cobblestones gradually faded in the distance. They had moved on to another area to continue their task.
Whatever, I thought, what's mine to worry about? Focus on the book, Kaya. I told myself.
( Authors note- For the love of God and everything holy in this mother earth, DO NOT.... I REPEAT DO NOT IMAGINE HENRY CAVILL or MICHELL MORRONE as our above-mentioned beautiful guy. PLEASE!! There are far more handsome blokes all around Earth other than these two. Google actors with blue eyes and black hair with tanned skin, and imagine literally anyone but NOT THIS TWO.
THANK YOU)