Page 4 of Desperate People

I tell her no. Lie through my fucking teeth and say I’m not interested.

Truth is, I had to say no. I didn’t trust myself to survive a night with her.

She deserves a man with a penthouse and a clean conscience.

Not a reformed street rat with a rap sheet longer than a Walmart receipt and a soul coded in regret.

Then comes the music video.

Some reggaetón superstar motherfucker with diamond grills and wandering hands.

He’s the kind of guy who gets off on flashing cash and licking microphones, and for some reason, the world eats it up.

He sees her at a charity gala her father drags her to—one of those high-profile events with overpriced tickets and shallow speeches. Lucy shows up looking like sin wrapped in silk, and this asshole decides she’s his next muse.

Writes a whole damn song about her.

A “tribute.”

A love letter disguised as a club banger.

Then he asks her to be in the video. And she says yes.

It happens fast. Too fast.

Right after I turned her down.

I can’t prove it, not really. But I know she did it on purpose.

Not to hurt me. Not really.

But because she’s human. And humans don’t like rejection.

She’s had offers before.

Modeling gigs. Commercials. Cameos.

She usually turns them down. Says no with a polite smile.

But this time?

She said yes.

And now I’m being fucking haunted by that song.

By that goddamn video.

It’s everywhere. Trending. Viral. People are making reaction clips and thirst edits, and I swear if I see one more slowed-down version of her twirling in that fucking dress, I might snap.

Every time I close my eyes, she’s there.

Lucy.

Dancing under flashing lights.

Glitter on her shoulders. That dress clinging to her body like it was sewn onto her skin.

Moving like temptation incarnate while the beat pulses and that asshole watches her like she belongs to him.

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