The Games We Play

Franco checked the folder in front of him for the third time. He drummed his right thumb on the surface of the folder, making a great effort not to see again those details he had already learned by heart.

He filled his lungs with air and looked up at the ceiling before he let it out noisily through his mouth and then repeated like a mantra the surnames of the families that murdered his father.

It was true that he should have been aware of every move, and so was the fact that he should have been by her side instead of traveling the world. But he also wasn't going to deny that he could only think of himself at that moment.

Remembering Andrea Garcia's brown eyes weren't doing him any good, much less if he saw that damned article about his happy, perfect family again. One more child in her second marriage, where he wouldn't be her husband either. He wanted to hate her with all his being, but he could not.

Her smiles returned to him, each moment when he came to her with a simple snap of his fingers. He was happy and would remember forever that kiss he achieved without proposing. One who delayed as long as he could not ruin his friendship with his best friend, which in the end did not help.

He was so close to making it his own (and boy did he want it), but the fear in her eyes and the space she kept between them burned in her chest every time she remembered.

I had lost her forever.

He touched his mouth, trying to perceive that softness, but it was not Andrea's delicate lips that his sinister mind brought back from the past but those of the woman posing in the picture in front of him.

The possessor of a malicious smile and a look too insightful for his taste.

Her name on the folder mocked him, and he could almost hear her laughter.

Livia Ávalos, the heiress he was to destroy and for whom he had planned for months a memorable downfall. She was fifth on his list, the one he would revel in and take all the time in the world, making it as slow and painful as he could.

He owed it to his father and himself.

He looked forward to it so eagerly that he could begin to savor in advance the satisfaction of seeing her turn pale in front of him as she recognized him, for that would be the starting signal for his revenge.

“Sir…” The sound of the intercom with his secretary's voice made him jump in place. “Miss Ávalos is already here.”

“Show her in, and don't let anyone interrupt us,” he replied solemnly.

He settled into his seat, leaning his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together, raising an eyebrow to greet her. He had been told he looked intimidating, but a moment before he heard the sound of the door, he thought better of it and walked to the desk behind him and rested his butt on the edge before crossing his arms over his chest. Her secretary repeatedly mentioned that her muscles were marked “overwhelmingly.” That was the exact term she used. So he decided it would not be bad to “overwhelm” that woman from the beginning.

“Good morning”

Livia stopped a few steps before the desk; her red lips curved into a small smile.

“Thank you, Paty,” Franco said, dismissing the secretary, who looked at him with narrowed eyes as she noticed where he chose to sit. He ignored her. “Good morning, miss...”

“Call me Livia, just Livia. We seem to be the same age to me.”

She held out her hand firmly, intending to shake his.

Franco hesitated momentarily, trying to delay the greeting as long as he could and to get a good look at him. He wanted to enjoy this radical change in her condition, to make her faint from the shock of having him in front of her again. Nevertheless, he noted her displeasure at not rushing to reach out and greet her as was natural.

“Excuse me...” he insisted, not about to give up his eagerness to score his first small victory. “I assumed we knew each other.”

He wanted to make him understand with his look and his half sideway smile that we did.

“Mmm. No. I don't think so,” Livia replied, mimicking the same gesture with her lips and showing a dimple that, the second it formed, offended him with unimaginable efficiency. Livia arranged one of her locks painted in various shades of blue to one side of her face and asked, amused: “May I take a seat?”

Franco wasn't aware of when he agreed to her request, but he assumed he had as the red” haired woman settled into a chair across from him.

“Fine, go ahead,” she urged him with a gesture to dictate the pace of the interview.

Franco sat simultaneously, still paying attention to each of his relaxed movements. The way she tucked her military” style boots across her leg over her knee, sheathed in black pants so tight that it marked her muscles unabashedly, made her throat dry.