The first time I thought we met was not the first time at all.
Back then, my father's company had gone bankrupt, and he was bedridden. The burden of the family fell solely on me.
Our rental apartment was splashed with pig blood, and my mother, who had never worked a day in her life, struggled to find a job, finally settling for washing dishes at a restaurant.
After much struggle, I finally managed to attend a party. I weaved through the crowd, trying my best to negotiate with investors and ask creditors for more time.
A man old enough to be my father grabbed my hand while we were talking.
He gave me a hotel room key with very strong sexual insinuations.
Ismael appeared late, amidst the attention of the crowd. He saw me with the man by the sidewalk, frowned, and walked over to my side.
A cliché rescue-the-damsel scene unfolded.
Even more cliché was that the creditor had gone online that very evening.
I had mentally prepared myself for a long time and dialed the phone number Ismael had left me.
He was sitting in a corner of the café, handing me a contract with no legal weight.
It was about my personal freedom.
"Stay with me for three years, and I'll take care of your debts."
I read each word slowly.
In my mind, I equated him with the middle-aged man from last night.
The hem of my skirt was crumpled in my grasp, my pen tightening and loosening, tightening and loosening.
Eventually, the signatory was Adeline.
I sold my most youthful three years to him.
That evening, I entered the same room as Ismael.
He looked at me curiously. "Your room isn't here."
Embarrassed, I touched my nose and realized that the maid had already prepared the bedroom next door.
It was not what I had imagined.
When Ismael spoke of "being with him," he meant simply spending time together.
Eating together, watching movies together, traveling together.
Occasionally answering his calls to pick him up after drinking events.
His friends and business partners knew me casually.
Everyone knew that Ismael had someone named Adeline in his life.
They assumed we were lovers or a couple.
But in reality, we weren't.
Nothing ever happened between Ismael and me.
Except that we lived under the same roof.
The closest we got to intimacy was months later when he came home drunk, and I helped him back to his room. He stumbled, dragging me down onto the bed.
He easily flipped over, half-pressing his body onto mine.
"Adeline..."
His face loomed closer, and I closed my eyes, turning my head.
The first "kiss" that didn't really count brushed my cheek.
Ismael felt my rejection, fell silent for a long time, and apologized: "I'm sorry. I was drunk."
He released me, massaged his temples, and pushed me out of the room.
I stared blankly at the closed door and reconsidered entering the room again.
The sound of water running from the bathroom filled the space.
I approached the door, hearing Ismael's restrained voice.
"Adeline, so good... just like that, be good..."
I hesitated slightly, leaning against the bathroom door, listening to his movements.
Ismael opened the door, and I didn't notice in time, falling onto the floor. We locked eyes.
He wore a cold expression as he picked me up and carried me back to the bed. Then he left with the same steady steps.
I still couldn't understand why I didn't leave that night.
Things began to change after that.
My relationship with Ismael changed, though it seemed to stay the same.
His attitude was still distant.
But the man who used to fulfill every request with a cold indifference had become more tolerant of my unreasonable demands.
It wasn't until much later that we truly became intimate.
A very cliché drugged scenario.
I was sent to his bed.
He pushed the door open, and seeing my flushed face, his expression turned cold.
But that day, we got stuck in traffic on the way to the hospital, and my body temperature kept rising. Unable to make it to the hospital, Ismael stopped at the nearest hotel.
In my blurred consciousness, it seemed as though he had asked for my consent, and I agreed.
In the aftermath, I thought to myself, the three years weren't over yet, and sure enough, things had turned out this way.
So, when did he start liking me?
