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“If you have so much free time to waste. Be my guest.” My words are emotionless, and with the last one, I slam the door shut, leaving the clinger and his curses behind me.
How difficult is it to understand that I don’t need a boyfriend, relationship, or even a steady booty call? And clearly, giving this one two rounds has been a mistake I’ve never made before.
Somehow all these men think they can be the ones to tame me. To turn me into a sweet, dotting wife and a loving mommy for their offspring. Or maybe they just want to make sure they are the ones to claim me like I am some kind of prize for their hunger games?
Isn’t that supposed to be the other way around? Don’t girls usually chase the men to make them settle down? To get thatring on their finger and a little paper saying they are the new shiny owner of that guy? Why didIget the shitty end of the stick, and no one I take to bed gets the memo about it just being sex!
Who am I kidding… I’ve had this crapped-all-over stick in my life ever since I was born, and you’d think by thirty I would learn my lesson, but I guess not.
When I finally step outside, the dirty New York air hits my lungs as I walk over to my all-black Rolls Royce Ghost and my dutiful driver, Henry, who are both patiently waiting for me. Yes, I went overboard on this car, but when you grew up with dust as toys, you get yourself the nicest crap you can.
When Henry sees me, he rolls his eyes like he always does when I flee the scene of the crime immediately after it was committed but doesn’t say a word as he opens the back door for me.
My fifty-seven-year-old driver has been with me for the past five years, and aside from my foster brother, Julius, he is the only other person I consider family. Which is why he always gets away with his eye rolls.
You see, Mr. Henry was married for thirty years before the love of his life passed away five years ago, and he took up the job with me, deciding to add another line to his job description, and that is, finding me a soulmate of my own. Little does he know, I have no soul myself…
Or maybe he suspects it by now…
Without even asking where to, Henry swerves into the traffic and takes me to the one place he knows I want to go to.My sanctuary. My safe place. My life. My family. My restaurant.
My Conte de fée.
By the age of thirty, I own not just one, but five different restaurants of different varieties, and each of the five have a place in pretty much every European country and half the states in America, as well as Asia and Australia.
Partially the reason behind all these idiots chasing me like a dog after a bone.
There is a trendy bar slash club called BluBerry. A steakhouse of the highest quality, serving the best cuts and prime meat called CutS. A vegetarian/vegan place by the name of Daze and another high-end Italian restaurant, Farina—which literally means flour. I know, I’m creative like that.
But Conte was my first grand step. My first real achievement so it’s the one I am the most attached to, and that is saying something as I see attachment as a behavioral condition that needs to be treated by a professional psychiatrist.
No, I’m not in need of therapy myself, and if you really took the time to see this life without the hideous rose-colored glasses, you’d see that I am right. Attachments are unhealthy, they strip you of your own identity and mold you to the one you are in need of. Whether it’s a human or materialistic thing.
Look at drugs and alcohol. Sex. Food. Social media. Whatever your poison is, it’s eating you alive.
But especially if it’s of the humankind. How many girls never went away to college because they didn’t want to leave their mediocre high school sweetheart at home alone? How many mothers kicked their children to the curb because the new love of their life didn’t want her kids? How many men left their families for the same reason?
And what about those who end up in a toxic relationship? Who give up their freedom, their friends, their voice because they think they must in order to stay close to the love of their life…
Yes, I sound riveting, and positivity basically oozes from my every pore, but trust me…
I know what I’m talking about.
I might only be thirty, but I’ve lived the life of a hundred-year-old war veteran. And sometimes, I wish my war woundscame from honorably fighting off the enemy to protect my own country.
Instead of the innocence of a thirteen-year-old child…
As much as I’d like to pretend his words didn’t send a chill of the past down my spine, I can’t. I know it was those words that brought on this wave of sad wisdom no one wants and a side dish of hidden anger below my skin.
I’ve been so lost in my own thoughts I haven’t even noticed Henry pulling up to my restaurant. I am still pretty shaken up on the inside, but hell if I will ever let it show. No, I plaster on my usual mask of indifference and stride over to the back entrance.
No need to be accosted by thousands of patrons and hundreds of paparazzi always littering the front entrance.
I’ve been the world’s best chef for the last seven years, and yet they all still think I have the warm and fuzzies hidden somewhere up my sleeve for them.
Idiots.
I don’t care about any of them. I don’t even care that they provide for my lifestyle. It’s not why I do what I do.
