LORENZO'S POV:
I begged them.
I wasn't just crying, I was on my knees, hands trembling, voice cracking, like something inside me was being ripped open by every word I had to say.
My parents stood across from me, unmoved, stone-faced as if the sound of their only son breaking meant nothing at all.
"I love her," I said. "I love Atasha. Please, don't make me marry someone i don't—"
"You will marry Margarette Zobel," my father snapped. "And that is final."
My mother didn't even look at me.
She just adjusted the diamond on her wrist and said, "It's been arranged, Lorenzo. You should be grateful."
Grateful.
Grateful that my future was being auctioned off for the sake of an old friendship between families.
Grateful that i had to spend the rest of my life with someone i didn't even know, all because her last name looked good beside mine in the business pages.
But they didn't know what i had already given up.
They didn't know that i already met her.
That i already lost her.
That she had ruined me before anyone else could even try.
—
The first time i saw her, it was late—past midnight—in some bar tucked between cracked sidewalks in US.
I was alone, drinking away the kind of loneliness that no amount of noise or company could cure.
And then she walked in.
God.
Atasha.
I didn't know her name then.
She didn't want me to.
She wore all black.
No makeup, no fake smile, no effort to be noticed—but i noticed.
I noticed the sadness tucked beneath her shoulders, the defiance in her eyes, the kind of beauty that was quietly self-destructive.
She sat beside me. I asked for her name.
She said, "You don't need to know it. We're not seeing each other again anyway."
And then we didn't speak much after that.
Just one look, one long pause, and the rest of the night was a blur of skin and desperation.
A kind of intimacy that left no room for pretense, just two broken people finding warmth in a bed that was never meant to mean anything.
But it did.
It did for me.
I woke up and she was gone.
No note.
No number.
Just the smell of her shampoo on the pillow.
And i never forgot her.
—
I searched.
I looked for her everywhere.
I didn't even know her name, just the shape of her eyes and the sound of her breath when she said yes.
I looked in every bar.
Every racetrack.
I flew to different cities—hell, I flew back to the US just to retrace the places i remembered.
Just in case.
Nothing.
Days passed.
Then weeks.
Then months.
And then… I saw her again.
Of all the places—Buenaventura Grand Circuit.
She was there, scanning the bulletin board like she belonged.
Her hair was pulled up, no makeup again, wearing jeans and an old hoodie.
My heart stopped.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
I approached slowly, like i was approaching a ghost.
She was real.
She was right there.
I saw her name written beside a number: Anastasia Isabela Gutierrez.
So that was her name.
Of course she was an heiress.
Of course she was someone i was never supposed to touch.
She was asking around, looking for a trainer. And before i could even think, I was stepping forward.
"I'll do it," I said.
The staff turned to me, eyes narrowing. "Do what?"
"Be her trainer," I said, clearing my throat.
And they agreed.
Just like that, she was back in my life—and I wasn't ready.
Because even as i watched her every day, helped her get back on the track, heard her laugh in between laps…
I was falling all over again.
And this time it was worse, because i knew what it felt like to lose her already.
But i was scared.
Scared because i knew what was coming.
My parents summoned me to a meeting. I knew what it was before they even opened their mouths.
"If you break this engagement," my father said coldly, "you lose everything."
"Everything?" I asked.
"The inheritance. The cars. The estate. Your seat in the board. Everything."
I stared at the floor for a long time after that.
And then, like a coward, I nodded.
—
I stayed in the condo after that.
Didn't tell anyone.
I still had money.
From past races.
From deals i did behind my father's back.
I lived quietly. Small. Unnoticed.
But i missed her every damn day.
—
And then she was gone.
She left again.
Just like that.
No warning.
No goodbye.
Just vanished.
I searched again.
Went to her house.
Asked everyone i knew.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"She doesn't want to be found," someone said.
I died a little hearing that.
Still, I looked.
Raced on every circuit she might return to.
Went back to the States.
Looked at every racetrack bulletin, Horeback riding.
Nothing.
Until today.
—
She told me to wait here, she told me that she'll get something in her hotel room, but she didn't comeback.
But when i was about to go outside, i saw her.
Atasha.
She was carrying a bag.
Beside her, an older woman.
And holding her hand… a little girl.
She couldn't have been older than two.
Bright eyes.
And that's when my world stopped spinning.
She didn't see me.
But i saw everything.
The way Atasha held her close.
The way the child looked up at her with the same eyes i used to lose myself in.
I knew.
God, I knew.
Even before logic could argue—my heart screamed it.
That's my daughter.
I wanted to run to them.
To scream her name, to beg her to look at me, to say something.
Anything.
But i stood frozen.
My feet wouldn't move.
My throat was tight.
My hands shook.
I followed them.
Quietly.
Carefully.
Like a man tracing the steps of a dream he never thought he'd see again.
They didn't notice me as they crossed the street.
Didn't notice when they pulled their luggage into the back of a waiting van.
Didn't notice when i trailed their car for nearly thirty minutes, heart in my throat, hands clenched on the wheel.
And when they turned into LAX, it hit me like a blow to the chest.
She's leaving.
Again.
I parked far from the terminal and watched from a distance.
Atasha got out first.
Then old woman.
And finally, the little girl.
Wearing a lilac jacket, tiny white shoes, and a matching purple clip on her curls.
She held a stuffed toy to her chest, wide-eyed at the world around her.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run to them.
But i couldn't move.
My whole body felt like lead.
So i just watched.
Watched as they checked in.
Watched as they handed their passports.
Watched as my daughter—my child—pressed her palm to the glass, marveling at the planes outside.
And i cried.
In the damn parking lot of Terminal.
Like a fool.
Like a man who'd been handed the truth far too late.
I think some part of me hoped Atasha would look back.
That she'd see me.
That there'd be one last moment of connection before she disappeared again.
But she didn't.
She didn't even know i was there.
When the gate number lit up on the screen—PARIS—I felt my chest cave in.
And still, I stayed.
I waited until they were nothing but specks in the crowd.
Even then, I couldn't leave.
My legs finally gave out.
I sat on the curb, head in my hands, feeling like i was drowning in silence.
And i whispered it—like a vow, like a prayer:
"She's mine. I know she's mine."
Then louder this time, to no one but myself, maybe to the gods who'd cursed me with this timing:
"I'm coming back for her. For both of them."
I didn't care what it cost.
Paris wasn't that far.
And love—real love—was worth bleeding for.