Nate Part 2

I've spent the whole morning staring at the message you sent me on WhatsApp, barely able to respond to my work emails, canceling meetings because I can't focus on anything. My elbows rest on my ipe wood desk with black steel legs. The white walls around me contrast with my insides, which feel like a tangled mess of dark, furious webs. The colorful paintings on the walls don't reflect anything of what my appearance conveys—they show happiness, while every pore of mine is oozing one thing: rage.
If Isabela were in front of me right now, it would be impossible not to throw her onto the damn brown leather couch across from my desk and fuck her until she's sore enough to understand that I want to end her! Until she decides the best option is to stay as far away from me as possible.
It's not walls I want to wreck anymore or objects I want to ruin. My sole object of destruction has a name: Isabela.
But I know myself well enough to realize my stubborn feet will never willingly walk away from her, to avoid an explosion of epic proportions. That bitch opened the gates of hell. And she’ll only escape me sucking her soul out if she runs fast enough, because I’m ready to destroy her... in every possible way.
I glance back at my phone screen.
**Tattle-Tale:** Send the dinner location!
**Me:** Restaurant Chuann, at Botafogo Shopping. Be there at eight. And remember the dress code. P.S.: your pussy was amazing.
I grin at my phone, relishing the thought of her probably looking outraged at my message. I almost didn’t send anything, considered abandoning the deal we made at the bar in the hall. But I did her the damn favor of fucking her while respecting her limits, enduring how she made it clear that she hadn’t remembered me. Even though I understand what she’s been through, I can’t help but hold a grudge. So she’s going to do me the damn favor of showing up for this dinner to try to improve her image with my bastard of a father.
I press my temples, gritting my teeth as I remember him—Vinicius. My dad was the biggest investor in my business and is now the majority shareholder. And even though I know he’s a major asshole, he’s the one who made my dream possible by getting it off the ground.
I went off the rails like a derailed train, drank like crazy last week, then scaled the side of a building and unloaded a can of spray paint with my usual graffiti... Translation: I ended up getting arrested for the fifth time. And all my other run-ins with the police have been for this, for being a vandal. Now my dad’s threatening me. He gave me an ultimatum: either I show that I can be responsible and live like a “normal man,” or he’s done with me. To be clear: he threatened to sell his shares in the company. And that would screw over everything I’ve worked for the last few years. Anyone could buy them, become the majority shareholder, and decide to do whatever they want with the damn dream I poured years of my life into, the project that drained my soul to bring to life.
I shake my head, teeth clenched as I remember Vinicius' words. As if he hasn’t been doing that my whole life—like I wasn’t ignored by him while growing up, for years on end. It’s almost like he didn’t contribute to the man obsessed with destruction I became. He acts as if he isn’t partly to blame for most of the scars on my soul.
Who would’ve thought that the troublemaker, the vandal, who had to learn to survive other people’s cruelty on his own, who was always seen as just a reckless graffiti artist—and all the other crap I heard at every school I got kicked out of—would build a huge business? That I’d be able to bring a franchise that was spreading success across Europe to Brazil? I fought against so many opposing opinions, so many doors slammed in my face, so many people laughing when I told them what I wanted to create in Rio de Janeiro.
And it worked like a damn charm!
I’m proud of what I created, what I made possible. When I showed my plans to my father, who was my last option, the only person I could turn to with all those doors closed, he surprised me by being interested. I had the idea... he had the money. We put the two together and brought something innovative to Brazil, with my own unique touches.
Now I just need to pretend to my father that I can be a normal guy, the model son he’d love to show off. The exact kind of person I’ll never be. My insides are rotten, and I’ve known that for far too long. The only good thing, the only bright spot that still survives in me, is my art. Maybe it’s the only joyful note that still runs through my veins, carving space between the blood poisoned by anger, rage, all the heavy feelings that make up who I am.
I’ll take Isabela with me to that dinner. I’ll take the thorny rose, because I don’t feel pain when I’m pricked. I’m used to dealing with people full of rage, and she’ll bend to what I want unless she chooses to heed the warning I’ll give her to disappear after dinner ends. I hope she doesn’t screw things up, because this matters too much, and I have no idea what I’ll do to her if she messes things up for me.
I did Isa a favor, and now, as I sit at the restaurant table across from the man dressed in an elegantly white shirt, with black hair and slanted eyes, all I feel is that it’s time for Isabela to return the favor.
“Good evening, Dad,” I greet, accepting the menu handed to me by the waiter.
Vinicius ignores me for a good ten minutes, doing what he’s always excelled at: showing that he doesn’t care about my presence. He fiddles with his iPhone, looking important with his small square glasses perched on his overly large, bony nose. I clench my jaw but don’t explode. It’s the usual dance: he shows me I’m just a burden he’s forced to deal with. I’ve learned to mimic his behavior, so I just stare at my watch. At least he arrived on time and didn’t give me the runaround like he usually does at our meetings. I suppress the usual feelings of rejection that surge when I’m around my father and send a message to Isabela: