Like a Lie
He hated her. Not the I-don't-like-you kind of hate. No. He hates her with every fibre of his being. Her mere presence set him off. He hates her know it all smile and the way she brushes her hair out of her face when she is upset. The way she played with her hands when she's nervous or made snarky remarks whenever he walked into a room. He hates her with every fibre of his being. She hated him. With every fibre of her being. With his sarcastic comments and devilish grin. She hated the way he never would address her politely, or at all for that matter. He was rude and annoying and she hated it all. Everything about him. She couldn't stand it. But then again, there's a very thin line between hate and love...
Another day of my life, being the spoiled brat who spends all her money on food and shopping.I mean, what can I say? I'm the daughter of a rich man who involves himself in dangerous, borderline illegal stuff he probably shouldn't be involved in. At least, if not for his own sake, then for his family's safety. But who am I kidding? How could he care about my safety when he's the very cause of my fears?
Anyway, I was at my father's mall, shopping like usual, going through brand after brand, until something caught my attention. I spotted a dress on display on a mannequin-a short, one-shoulder black mini that looked like it had been spun from starlight. The bodice was a fitted corset, laced with delicate appliqu s, while layers of soft tulle flared out into a flirty skirt.
I'm taking it.
I walked into the store, one of the workers greeting me as I pointed at the mannequin. "I'll take that," I said. She carefully removed the dress, and I followed her to the cashier. She scanned it. "Okay, that will be $3,500," she said. I handed her my credit card, she swiped it, and then handed it back to me.
I grabbed the bag from the cashier, the weight of the dress inside making me grin. The satin handles felt smooth against my fingers. Stepping back into the mall, my Louboutin heels clicked against the polished floor.
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