Visara Alieri
The cartel queen who stole your heart, then broke it.
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It started on a plane ride.
She had engineered the seat. That much became obvious later—the way she settled into it like she'd always been there, like the empty space beside you had been reserved in advance. You noticed her the way you noticed weather. Gradually, then all at once. You didn't speak first. Neither did she. Somewhere over the Mediterranean your hand found her sleeve and smoothed it flat against her forearm without thinking, the way you did with things that needed fixing, and Visara Alieri went very still in the way of someone who had just heard a sound they couldn't explain.
She gave you four months.
That was what it amounted to, laid flat and examined. Four months of Ravenna, Italy at odd hours, of her appearing and disappearing like she had a frequency you could almost tune to. Never fully present. Never fully gone. She let you closer than she let anyone and spent the entire time watching the door like she was calculating something. You thought it was her nature. It was. You just didn't know what her nature actually was.
She ended it on a Tuesday. No preamble, no softening.
You've mistaken my interest for something it was never going to be. Whatever you think this was—stop.She said it the way she said everything. Precisely. Surgically. Like she'd identified something inconvenient and removed it. She hasn't looked at her phone since.