Down the memory line: Future?

Isabella Alvarez had a headache. It was one of those never-ending migraines that threaten to split your head open every damn time.

It even had a name.

Michael Roah.

The damn bastard disappeared again. And, just as usual, it was a whole other pain in the ass to find him.

***

He came back to her. She let him in. And then he left. Only to return at a later date. And the cycle started all over again.

The fickle bastard kept chasing after whoever and whatever his shitty nature and his thrice-damned interest made him.

And she kept on waiting for him, like an old housewife waiting for her unfaithful husband. Well, at least he didn't lie to her. He never promised to stop. They both knew he wouldn't.

Why was she letting him back every time? Why did seeing his smiling face on the intercom screen make her heart feel calmer?

If only she had the answers to these questions.

The only upside to this was that he usually brought with him either blank checks or some interesting pieces of information. It was a weak consolation, but it was better than nothing.

As time went by, once she understood that this vicious cycle was the new norm of her life, her pride made her do something—petty revenge.

Next time, as soon as the usual telltale signs started to appear, she seduced her personal assistant. The girl was obedient and passionate, and she wasn't bad-looking either.

Yeah. Petty revenge. And the expression of jealousy on his face—a genuine one—was a treat in itself.

***

"You know," he said, looking down, "I don't think I will be able to return this time."

Those words scared her. No, not even the words themselves. The way they were said. The tone. The lack of emotion in his voice.

It had been almost five years since she last heard Michael Roah sound so...

Bored.

"That stupid game of mine. Chasing skirts. Playing the role of gigolo." He paused, letting the words linger. "It's not enough anymore."

***

He left. It was a gray mouse this time. Was he trying something new? And from what she had gathered, it was a one-time thing.

Then, Michael Roah simply disappeared. Their usual game, who will make the other side more jealous, ended as a non-starter.

He simply ignored her messages. So, ever so proud, she stopped sending them.

And then she started hearing rumors about him.

Bad ones. Worse than usual. Less womanizing. More violence. Way more violence...

Every time she heard something new, the dull ache in her heart became stronger. Isabella Alvarez. That Alvarez Woman. With all her connections, with all her power, and with all her riches, she was completely and utterly powerless.

And she felt it.

***

He never came back.

The rumors about him were steadily getting worse by the day.

***

He didn't call. He never sent a single message.

By now, the rumor mill has equalized the words 'Michael Roah' and 'fucking animal'. For them, he wasn't a person any longer. A beast. Someone to avoid.

She did her best to mediate whenever it was possible, but the sheer number of incidents slowly tipped the scale.

***

It was a rainy day. More like a week. 

It had been three years since she had seen him last.

In all honesty, her life turned out better without him in the picture. Maybe. She was almost sure.

"Isabella." Lyta called out to her.

They were dating for the last three years, and wasn't that a surprise even to her? Well, if she thought about it a bit harder, it was hardly a surprise at all.

The girl in question was a jackpot. Loyal. Loving. A hard worker, both in the bedroom and office alike. And easy on the eyes. She would never tell her, but with her tomboyish looks, she reminded her of Miguel.

She checked all her boxes. Except for one.

She wasn't Michael Roah.

The fucking bastard was still somewhere out there. Doing whatever evil deed the fucking animal was up to this time around.

And she was here, drinking wine, and waiting for the day she would receive the news about his corpse turning up in some alleyway.

"Isabella." Her girlfriend called out to her once more.

"Mhm?" She let her attention be known.

"Are you thinking about him again?" There was so much jealousy in those words.

Just as she was about to answer, the sound of an intercom interrupted her.

Judging by how fast her heart started beating, Lyta's jealousy was right on the money.

"Isabella." Her girlfriend tried to say something else.

She ignored her, quickly approaching the intercom.

Michael Roah looked pale; there were deep shadows under his eyes; and, overall, he looked like a stray dog as the raindrops streamed from his overgrown hair down on his overly handsome, if a bit too thin, face.

"It's me." Familiar words. Familiar voice. Even his smile was the same.

He was back. He came back.

It wasn't even a choice for her, as her hand pressed the 'open' button.

She continued ignoring Lyta, who was trying to say something else, as she went to open the door.

The sound of a doorbell. She opened the door.

Michael Roah didn't look pale because of the rain or the cold. Her eyes followed his figure down to his midsection. To the place where his hand was clasping what, most likely, was a stab wound. A fresh one, judging by the amount of blood.

"I said so." He still had his smile on.

And then he fell forward, right into her embrace.

The world of Isabella Alvarez stopped.

No.

He was heavy, and she felt how her knees were buckling down under his weight.

Not like that.

Blood. So much blood.

Not again.

"Fucking deserved." Lyta's words tore through the wool in her head.

The anger brought adrenaline. Adrenaline brought a surge of power. Which helped her lay Michael down on the floor.

"Get your things and get the fuck out of here. Never appear before my eyes again. Bitch." Isabella Alvarez spat those words.

Panic. Sorrow. Regret. This all can wait.

She could still feel his pulse. There was still hope. It wasn't too late.

She pressed the emergency button on the intercom linked to the apartment below. They should have training. They should have a first-aid kit ready.

Her favorite silk robe was completely soaked in blood, but she didn't care. All she could do was wait, trying to apply the pressure and doing her best to minimize blood loss.

Seconds trickled by, ever so slowly. 

He was cold. So cold. Now, with better lighting, she could see that his lips were getting blue already.

Sound of footsteps. Voices.

"Help him. Please. I beg you." She begged as her voice cracked.

Isabella Alvarez, That Alvarez Woman, couldn't care less about her reputation at that moment.

Her world turned into a kaleidoscope of events.

Uncle Jose was barking out orders.

A warm layer of clothing covered her mostly naked frame.

A warm cup somehow appeared in her hands.

More people were coming and going.

What was she supposed to do?

The cold body in her hands. Those bluish lips.

Would she need to visit yet another grave?

Was she cursed?

Her head went blank.

No thoughts. 

Three words were going on repeat.

"I said so."