Page 11 of Desperate People

Well, I thought he looked at me like I mattered more than the world.

But I was wrong. Turns out, he didn’t.

So yeah.

Maybe I’m impulsive.

Maybe I’m a little shallow.

Maybe I make mistakes.

But I’m not heartless. No matter what Instagram or TikTok says about me.

I have feelings.

Big, messy, hopeless, heart-wrenching feelings.

The kind that make you say yes when you mean no.

The kind that make you want to tear your heart out just so it’ll shut up for a while.

And now, I’m stuck trying to clean up the wreckage of that decision, praying it’s not too late to get my dignity back, and praying even harder that it’s not too late for me to just be me—plain old Lucy Volkov—again.

God, I just want someone to see me. Really see me.

Because behind the glitz, the glam, the strategic don’t care smirk—I do want that.

I care.

And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.

To make matters worse?

I think I care about him.

Not El Tigre.

I mean, I’m a fan of his music. And getting that call to be his muse, well, it was flattering.

But when I say I care about him, I’m talking about the other him.

Balor Cruz.

Not El Tigre.

I mean, Rico Véliz is smooth, talented, and absurdly attractive in that cocky, gold-chain-wearing way that makes your brain stop working.

He has stage presence.

Swagger.

A voice like sin and smoke.

I first met him at some gala my father dragged me to.

He was charming, a little outrageous, and surprisingly respectful. We shared one dance, one conversation. I didn’t think anything of it.

Six weeks later, his manager, Daniel Matheson, called me out of the blue. He said Rico wrote a song about me.

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