If we play with fire

Franco checked the folder in front of him for the third time. He drummed his right thumb on the surface of the folder, making a great effort not to see again those details he had already learned by heart.

He filled his lungs with air and looked up at the ceiling before he let it out noisily through his mouth and then repeated like a mantra the surnames of the families that murdered his father.

It was true that he should have been aware of every move, and so was the fact that he should have been by her side instead of traveling the world. But he also wasn't going to deny that he could only think of himself at that moment.

Remembering Andrea Garcia's brown eyes weren't doing him any good, much less if he saw that damned article about his happy, perfect family again. One more child in her second marriage, where he wouldn't be her husband either. He wanted to hate her with all his being, but he could not.

Her smiles returned to him, each moment when he came to her with a simple snap of his fingers. He was happy and would remember forever that kiss he achieved without proposing. One who delayed as long as he could not ruin his friendship with his best friend, which in the end did not help.

He was so close to making it his own (and boy did he want it), but the fear in her eyes and the space she kept between them burned in her chest every time she remembered.

I had lost her forever.

He touched his mouth, trying to perceive that softness, but it was not Andrea's delicate lips that his sinister mind brought back from the past but those of the woman posing in the picture in front of him.

The possessor of a malicious smile and a look too insightful for his taste.

Her name on the folder mocked him, and he could almost hear her laughter.

Livia Ávalos, the heiress he was to destroy and for whom he had planned for months a memorable downfall. She was fifth on his list, the one he would revel in and take all the time in the world, making it as slow and painful as he could.

He owed it to his father and himself.

He looked forward to it so eagerly that he could begin to savor in advance the satisfaction of seeing her turn pale in front of him as she recognized him, for that would be the starting signal for his revenge.

"Sir..." The sound of the intercom with his secretary's voice made him jump in place. "Miss Ávalos is already here."

"Show her in, and don't let anyone interrupt us," he replied solemnly.

He settled into his seat, leaning his elbows on the desk, and clasped his hands together, raising an eyebrow to greet her. He had been told he looked intimidating, but a moment before he heard the sound of the door, he thought better of it and walked to the desk behind him and rested his butt on the edge before crossing his arms over his chest. Her secretary repeatedly mentioned that her muscles were marked "overwhelmingly." That was the exact term she used. So he decided it would not be bad to "overwhelm" that woman from the beginning.

"Good morning"

Livia stopped a few steps before the desk; her red lips curved into a small smile.

"Thank you, Paty," Franco said, dismissing the secretary, who looked at him with narrowed eyes as she noticed where he chose to sit. He ignored her. "Good morning, miss..."

"Call me Livia, just Livia. We seem to be the same age to me."

She held out her hand firmly, intending to shake his.

Franco hesitated momentarily, trying to delay the greeting as long as he could and to get a good look at him. He wanted to enjoy this radical change in her condition, to make her faint from the shock of having him in front of her again. Nevertheless, he noted her displeasure at not rushing to reach out and greet her as was natural.

"Excuse me..." he insisted, not about to give up his eagerness to score his first small victory. "I assumed we knew each other."

He wanted to make him understand with his look and his half sideway smile that we did.

"Mmm. No. I don't think so," Livia replied, mimicking the same gesture with her lips and showing a dimple that, the second it formed, offended him with unimaginable efficiency. Livia arranged one of her locks painted in various shades of blue to one side of her face and asked, amused: "May I take a seat?"

Franco wasn't aware of when he agreed to her request, but he assumed he had as the red" haired woman settled into a chair across from him.

"Fine, go ahead," she urged him with a gesture to dictate the pace of the interview.

Franco sat simultaneously, still paying attention to each of his relaxed movements. The way she tucked her military" style boots across her leg over her knee, sheathed in black pants so tight that it marked her muscles unabashedly, made her throat dry.

However, it was clear that morning that she did not choose her outfit to be sensual. She was somewhat androgynous and not entirely sure why, but he was very upset about that.

He also realized that he had repaired each of his delicate features for too long from the invisible force that made her eyes crawl towards her blues, to her mouth, and then further south like it was an endless struggle to find out what was under that black jacket that covered her completely.

The silence was becoming an embarrassing moment. Franco knew it, but in his defense, he had to say that when he planned this encounter, he never imagined she would ignore him with such nerve. So, he opted to push her a little harder and asked:

"Did you study at Sacred Heart?"

"Yes, I did. It says so on my resume." She pointed to the folder on the desk with one of her black fingernails.

"Me too." He almost snarled that sentence.

The truth was, he wanted to shake her for being so cynical.

"Oh, yeah? What promotion are you from?"

Livia tilted her face with keen interest, and Franco snorted, causing her to squint and look at the office door. She looked as if she were considering a possible way out in case he lost his sanity any minute.

"I graduated a year after you did." He exhaled wearily. Nothing was turning out the way he wanted it to.

"Oh!"

"Yes."

Franco wanted to pound his fist on the desk to make her react.

"No wonder. Wait... that year, Efrain Garcia graduated. He is now an architect, right? He invited me to his graduation party."

Mentioning to him that place where another encounter between the two of them had occurred and pretending I didn't know who he was, was crossing the line, something too low even for a woman with his reputation.

He was... he was...

Suddenly he felt overwhelmed. He had to loosen his tie a little, but that didn't help either.

Livia was talking. He could see her lips moving, red, seductive, and sweet as he thought he remembered. The same ones he had kissed under the gymnasium stairs the morning he was "selected." He received the famous accolade she had made fashionable when she arrived at the institute, turning all the boys into animals thirsty for a bit of her attention.

"What?" he asked stupidly. He had to concentrate.

"I said, if you're not feeling well, we can postpone the interview." His half" curved smile became one of the things he liked least in life.

"No." He shook his head from side to side almost imperceptibly and pulled himself together after clearing his throat. I'm...

She didn't let him finish. She stood confidently and walked over to a table where a pitcher of cold water rested and poured it into a long glass. She moved too close to his side and handed it to him.

But it wasn't that left him petrified. It was the fact that she raised her hand and posed it over his forehead with too much familiarity.

"I'm sorry," Livia said, retracting her fingers as if she had been burned." You're very pale, and I wouldn't want you to die of a heart attack in front of me."

That answer created an internal struggle in his chest. A violent impulse swept over him as he felt her fingers on him. Those simple words felt like poison, and he could not restrain himself from answering:

"No. It was my father who was killed like that."

"I'm sorry," she repeated. Now she was the pale one.

Franco was not at all sorry for that convoluted turn of a scene, but the simple fact of having made her uncomfortable already counted as a small achievement.