5. Alejandro
Alejandro
I reach across the bed, half-awake, expecting to find her still curled up beside me. My fingers graze cold sheets, empty where she should be. My eyes snap open and I sit up, scanning the room as if she’s just hiding somewhere, out of sight. But she’s gone. Just like that, she’s gone.
This must be how she felt.
A heavy, sinking feeling settles in my chest, pulling me down with it.
Last night feels almost surreal now—the warmth of her skin against mine, the way her laughter had softened, the look in her brown eyes that made me believe, just for a moment, we could pick up the pieces of whatever we used to have.
She doesn’t even realize what she does to me.
That hair—long, dark, falling around her shoulders like it was made for my hands to get lost in.
That face—soft, strong, beautiful, the kind of beautiful that doesn’t fade, no matter how many years pass.
Her skin, smooth and warm, the same shade I used to trace with my fingers like it was the only map I needed.
She’s everything I want, everything I can’t get out of me. And now I’m here, alone, the memory of her already fading like a dream I can’t hold onto.
I rake a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the weight of it all. After years of pushing her out of my mind, of convincing myself she’d moved on, that she was better off, she’d been here, in my arms, just hours ago. And now? Now I don’t get a goodbye, not even a damn note on the pillow.
The irony tastes bitter. I left her the same way once, convinced I was doing the right thing, that I was saving her from the threats hanging over my head, saving her relationship with her family.
It’s better this way , I’d written, thinking I could just walk away clean.
But now, I feel the emptiness of that choice, the years wasted on that lie.
I thought I’d built something solid, a life she’d be proud to see, but what good is any of it if she doesn’t know the truth?
I sit there with a fresh ache creeping in.
She left without a word, and I can’t blame her.
She probably thinks I’m still the same guy who walked away without looking back, who thought a note would somehow explain everything she meant to me.
And the worst part? She doesn’t know that every damn thing I’ve done since then was for her, to prove I could be the man she deserved.
But none of that matters if she doesn’t want to hear it.
I shove back the covers and stand, scanning the quiet room, half-expecting to hear her voice or catch a glimpse of her dark hair in the hallway.
My heart clings to the faint hope that maybe she’s still here somewhere, that I’m just jumping to conclusions.
She wouldn’t just vanish, right? Not after everything we shared last night. She has to be here.
I pull on a shirt and head toward the bathroom, but it’s silent, empty, the light off.
My footsteps echo down the hall as I move through the house, searching for any sign of her—a purse, a jacket, something she left behind in her hurry.
But the kitchen is as empty as the rest of the place, not a glass out of place.
I pause by the window, gripping the edge of the counter as reality sinks in.
I feel like I’m right back where I started, all those years ago, holding on to the empty space I left behind with her.
It’s my own fault. She doesn’t know why I left her, and I can’t tell her.
Not when I know how much her father means to her, even if I’d give anything to watch his world come crashing down.
My jaw tightens, the familiar resentment bubbling up, but I shove it down. No, I’m not going to be the one to drive a wedge between them. Whatever he did to us, that’s mine to carry. I’m not going to put that on her.
I reach for my phone, instinctively, just in case she tried to call or leave a message. But the screen is blank, no missed calls, no texts—until, suddenly, it isn’t. My heart leaps as her name flashes across the screen.
Beatriz .
My thumb hovers over the notification, and for a moment, I feel that flicker of hope I had last night, like maybe this is a chance, maybe we can finally—well, maybe it’s just something.
Beatriz
Sorry .
I fire off a message without thinking twice, even though my mind is swirling with questions. Is she sorry for sleeping with me again? Sorry for leaving this morning? Or maybe she's sorry for ever talking to me.
I can’t let her walk away, not after everything.
Alejandro
I told you we would talk in the morning. It’s morning now, Bee. Where are you?
My phone stays still in my hand, mocking me. My pulse is racing, but the seconds drag, agonizingly slow. I wait. I tell myself I’m fine, that I don’t need a response right away, but the silence in the room grows heavier with each passing second.
A minute. Then another. My thoughts spiral—what if she’s already done with me? What if she’s shut me out? What if she’s forgotten everything?
Just as I feel my resolve start to crack, the phone buzzes in my hand, a small relief. I don’t wait to read the message; I swipe it open with urgency.
A location pin.
Beatriz:
I’m here.
I exhale sharply, the tension leaving my body in one long breath.
Without hesitation, I grab my jacket, snatching my keys off the counter.
There’s no time to waste. No more doubting.
Beatriz Ayala isn’t getting away from me again.
Not this time. I’m going to make things right, even if it means I have to fight for it.
I hop into my neon blue Corvette, slamming the door behind me, fingers tightening around the steering wheel as I pull out of the driveway. The café is half a mile away, but it feels like a lifetime with every turn, every second that stretches between me and the chance to talk to her.
Her text still stings, like a cruel reminder. What exactly is she sorry for? For running out on me this morning? For the way things ended between us? Or is it for letting herself fall into my bed at all?
I can’t make sense of it, but the gnawing feeling in my gut tells me that I won’t get any answers until I see her in person. That’s where my head’s at when I pull into the parking lot of the café.
I catch sight of her through the window, sitting at a table, looking small in that vast space.
Her posture’s stiff, hands wrapped around a cup, eyes cast downward.
She’s not looking at anyone, not giving herself away.
I don’t like it. She’s withdrawn, like she’s carrying something heavy that I can’t see.
I don’t give myself a chance to overthink it. I get out of the car and head straight for the door, the heavy beat of my pulse guiding me forward.
And then I see him.
At first, he’s just another gringo man. Tall, blonde, with a chiseled jaw and sharp cheekbones, his face sharp enough to be on a magazine cover.
The guy practically radiates that polished, model-like vibe—light green eyes that glint with self-assurance, his whole presence exuding an arrogance that makes me want to put my fist through his face.
But then he takes her hand.
The motion is smooth, almost rehearsed. Like he has every right to touch her, every right to hold her like that.
His thumb strokes the back of her hand with too much damn tenderness—too soft, too knowing.
He leans in close, and I can see it in his eyes.
He’s trying to convince her of something.
His gaze is too tender, too condescending. And then it hits me.
I know who he is.
The cheating ex .
The same fucking guy who betrayed her—the one she told me about last night, the one she should never let back in her life. I can feel my jaw clench, my fists tightening at my sides.
I want to walk away. Hell, part of me wants to turn around, get in the car, and never look back. But I can’t. I’ve come this far, and if she thinks she’s going to let this prick back into her life, then I’ll make sure she knows she's worth more than that.
I step into the café, moving with purpose. My eyes never leave her. But she hasn’t seen me yet. She’s still looking at her ex, caught in whatever web he’s spinning. He’s good—real good. I can see it.
Fuck that.
I march up to their table, Converse hitting against the floor, cutting through the murmur of quiet conversations. The asshole doesn’t look up. He’s too busy playing his part, feeding her lies, selling her on some version of reality that I refuse to let her believe.
When I reach her, I stop, my gaze locking with hers. Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away. She’s frozen. Confused, maybe. I’m not giving her the time to second-guess herself.
I lean down, my fingers finding her chin, tilting her face up to meet mine. She’s stiff, but I don’t care. I don’t want to hesitate. I want her. Now.
“Found you, Killer Bee,” I murmur, my voice low and steady. “Have you told this idiot you’re done with him yet?” I shift my gaze to her ex, still sitting there, oblivious to the storm brewing in my chest. “Because I’m ready to take you back to my place.”
The words hang between us, a challenge, an invitation.
Beatriz looks like she’s about to pass out, her face pale as I stake my claim in front of this smug prick. She doesn’t realize it yet, but there’s no way I’m letting her run back to him, not after what he did. You don’t get to cheat on someone like Beatriz and still hold on to her.
He, on the other hand, is silently seething, his eyes glued to me, pinning me with a murderous glare I don't take seriously. He can pretend to care all he likes, but if he ever did, he wouldn't have been cheating on her.