I CAN’T REMEMBER THE TIME I’ve allowed myself to really stand still and watch the sunset. My days have been consumed by my work right after college. So much was expected of me since I started training as a future CEO. There was little time left for relaxation like this, like truly relax without thinking of anything connected to my vast responsibilities.

I’ve had my little downtimes, but I preferred sex to relax me. Fast, hard sex. I was younger, driven and burning extra adrenaline caused by the demands of my work. It was also readily available and not too time-consuming. An hour or two with a woman who wanted a rough tumble was good enough for me. It went on for years, this lifestyle. I didn’t care for relationships really.

But after Grandfather died last year, things changed. Our last serious conversation really got to me.

I still vividly remember his last words to me. He’d said a lot that day…

He was lying on his bed in a hospital suite in New York, his heart too weak to beat normally anymore. He was almost ninety years old.

“I know we have worked you to the bone the past decade, Jeffery…. I will apologize for that now… You have fulfilled your duties to this family like a true Vandercourt. I’m so proud of you, my boy…But it’s time for you to live.”

I thought I heard him wrong. “Leave, Grandfather? Where are you sending me?”

“Live, my boy. Live your life to the fullest.”

I’d laughed then, in denial, and because nobody in my family ever cared about what I felt inside. “Grandfather, what are you talking about? I’m alive. Better than ever.”

He’d looked at me sadly, his eyes glassy and showing every bit of his age. Such wise eyes. “No, you haven’t…haven’t been for a long time.”

“Grandfather, please, don’t talk too much anymore. You need to rest. Your heart. Don’t worry about me or the family or the company. I’ll take care of everything. I promise.”

“No…no…you listen to me…I’m dying, Jeffery…I dreamt of your Grandma again a while back. She’s waiting for me…”

What could I say to a man who had lived a full life to the ripe old age of eighty-eight? He’d been a widower for fifteen years and had never let the memories of my grandmother fade. His loyalty to her had been for the books. I can only dream of a relationship like that, of a love like that. I’d emulated this man all my life, my grandfather Edmund Vandercourt, the greatest Vandercourt in my book.

The only thing I haven’t succeeded in doing that Grandfather was best at is finding a woman to love and be faithful with. That’s the hardest part of my Grandfather’s legacy. A tough act to follow. His and Grandma’s love story was truly for the books.

“I have done many things…but I have few regrets…and they are my biggest regrets…your father…and you…”

“Grandfather, you’re talking nonsense. Father and I are your best legacies. We’re both doing great. Dad might even become the next president of this country. The party has been floating the idea. I might just agree.”

He’d stared at me, his eyes so sad. “You’re not listening to me, Jeffery.”

I’d sighed and gently touched his head. “Grandpa, I’m listening.”

“Your father’s marriage to your mother was the best thing I’ve ever seen…They loved each other very much… I told your father to slow down…to take care of family first…but he didn’t listen…He involved your mother in the family business instead…and now…look at him…married thrice…divorced twice…”

“Father is fine, Grandpa. He’s happy with Heather now. Let’s leave him be.”

“No…if he only listened to me…”

“Grandpa—“

“Listen to me!” His gnarly hand had grabbed my shirt, his voice suddenly strong. His eyes were deadly serious. I paid attention.

“Find a woman. A good one. Start your own family. That’s an order, Jeffery.”

His voice was very clear as he uttered those words.

“That’s quite impossible at the moment given my busy schedule, Grandfather.”

He’d gripped my shirt harder and shook me with his remaining strength. “You listen to me! Don’t be like your father. Breathe, Jeffery! Live!”

Those were his very last words to me. The next time I saw him, he’d gone to see Grandma.

Breathe. Live.

I really didn’t understand it at first until this very moment.

This beautiful sunset. My beautiful Mara.

Breathe. Live.

Maybe I do have a chance at both now.

My woman glances at me. She gives me a sweet smile.

My breathing slows down as my heartbeat picks up, a regular occurrence in my body now since I met her, among other things that make me wonder how in hell have I lived this long without knowing I could feel like this for another human being.

We have made love all night. Twice this morning.

Her body has adjusted to mine and she no longer hurts when I’m inside her.

Five days have passed so quickly. I feel like I’ve made love to her a million times already and it’s still not enough. I find myself wishing for time to slow down, or stand still.

I don’t want to go back to New York yet. To my old life.

Old. Funny how five days can change a lifetime.

I sigh. But I know I must. There’s a huge merger happening in the next few weeks, one I’ve been working on for a year now. I need to attend to it.

But it’s comforting to know that Mara will be with me in New York. I’m not letting her out of my sight. I need her like the air I breathe.

I’ve put enough seed in her to make a hundred babies. I hope we made at least one already.

I try to imagine her pregnant.

She would look magnificent, her body gaining more flesh as it nurtures my child. Her already generous rack would fill with milk…

My thoughts are making me swell with desire again.

God, this woman.

I barely know her and I’m feeling these things for her. Things I can no longer control.

“What are you thinking?” she asks me, taking her eyes from the book she’s reading. She’s raided the library in this villa and I’m amazed at her choices of reads.

She’s currently digging her nose into the pages of The 50^th Law, one of my favorites.

It’s time to ask her the questions that matter. I hope she will be honest this time and tell me everything. The report that was emailed to me by the PI came up with information that worries me.

So much depends on her honesty.

“So, you never told me the exact reason why you left Venezuela.”

Her eyes widen.

I carefully watch her.

She puts her book down to the side and sits upright on the cushions. We’re lounging at the deck of the villa. She’s sipping fruit juice, I’m drinking cold beer. It has been a lazy day and I have lazy, nice thoughts after coming several times inside her. It seems that I can’t think of having sex without coming bareback anymore. And I can’t think beyond Mara anymore, too.

“Well… you never did ask.”

“I’m asking now.”

She wets her lips with her tongue, shifting her ass uncomfortably. “I told you… I was a journalist.”

“Who was critical of Chavez and the present government.”

“Yes.”

“What exactly happened? Why did you leave your job and your country?”

Her expression becomes guarded, and I can see a hint of defiance in her eyes. “Don’t you know about this already? I’m sure you had me vetted by now,” she says with a lace of sarcasm in her tone.

“I want to hear it from you.”

She inhales deeply and looks at her fingers, a mannerism of hers when she’s nervous. I have picked up on her little gestures and nuances to be able to tell what she’s feeling now.

“It’s all right, Mara. You can tell me.”

Her lashes lift up, and her eyes meet mine again. I can see the fear which she’s trying to cover up by a false bravado, and my immediate instinct is to make that fear go away. “I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

“Please, don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“What? You don’t believe I can protect you?”

She stares at me harder, a challenge in her eyes.

I can feel my temper rising that she’s doubting me on this matter.

She finally sighs. “Last year, Caracas erupted into violent protests. Have you heard about it?”

“I caught some news about it, yes.”

“During that time, I felt that my country was a lost cause. The TV Station I was working for was shut down and some of my colleagues were arrested by the authorities. They were put in jail for inciting sedition. I ran.”

“I see.”

“I was fortunate to have some friends at the US embassy there who helped me secure a tourist visa. It helped that I was openly critical of the current government which your government uhm….hates. But my visa expired. So, here I am now.”

I nod. “So, what were you fighting for?”

“You really wanna hear about this? Is it important in our arrangement?”

“Yes.”

She sighs again before she continues. “I was fighting for my people, the ordinary Venezuelans. The working class who are the backbone of the economy of Venezuela and as we speak, are starving, deprived of their God-given and constitutional rights to live decent lives as human beings.”

“You don’t believe the present government of Venezuela is doing good for the people?”

“The present government is just a continuation of the Chavez regime, and Chavez ruled for far too long. Twelve years and the Venezuelans are still stuck in the same old system.”

I knew she was a journalist, but I didn’t know she could be this outspoken in person. I am fascinated, eager to pick her mind some more. “So, who were you rooting for? The opposition?”

“No.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I may have sounded like I was anti-Chavez and anti-Maduro, but I was against the system in general. I was rooting for my people. I was fighting for democracy. Real democracy.” Her face has become wistful.

“No real democracy in Venezuela? Do you think there’s real democracy anywhere in the world?”

She gives me a condescending look this time. “Oh, spoken like an oligarch.”

She’s intensely passionate about this. And she got me there. Dammit. “Go on.”

“Chavez’ political platform was socialistic from the beginning. He was close to Fidel Castro, what did you expect? Maybe in the beginning when Chavez became president for the first time, I did believe he wanted the best for the people. But he was eaten by the system through the years, plunging the country in economic depression and political divide. His style of governance was leaning more and more toward dictatorship and when he died, the presidency became just a means to seize power, and not merely by Venezuelan political parties but by outside forces, as well.”

“Why do you say this?”

“Elections were rigged. Journalists were gagged. They only protect their party’s interests, not the people. They try to blind us with rhetorics of patriotism, but people are suffering, people are starving, freedom is no more, and all because of forces who want to retain their power or want to seize power. No one really cares for the common people of Venezuela.”

“You’re quite passionate about this, I can see.”

She smiles sadly. “I was.”

My eyes roam over her shiny mass of copper hair, her lovely face, that magnificent body that could make any red-blooded man’s lust ignite from a look alone. I’m certainly not immune to that, and the thought of her not being mine anymore is more aggravating as the days pass.

But her intellect is something else. Jesus, I can imagine our future conversations.

“Given your beauty and smarts, wouldn’t it have been wiser had you been neutral? You would have been a big TV personality back in your country by now. I think you were on your way.”

She shrugs, her eyes having this faraway look “We make our choices in life. I did mine. There were bigger and better things to fight for than a career in television. ” Her eyes darken. “But what do you know about it? About countries in turmoil like mine? About the plight of their people? You’re an American billionaire. A capitalist. A very powerful man. An imperialist. You only care about the bottomline in your bank account, not how it got there.”

I give her a warning look. She’s treading on dangerous territory. While I’m crazy about her, I don’t allow anybody to talk to me like this. “That sounds loaded, Mara.”

She doesn’t bat an eye. “It is.”

The right thing to do now is to cut this conversation short, put her in her place, show her who’s calling the shots here, but I surprise myself even more. “Tell me about it.”

“It has been the talk of the street since Hugo Chavez died that he was in fact liquidated by your government.”

I’m glad she was with me or God, what comes out of her mouth might put her in grave danger. “Be careful, sweetheart. “

She flips her long hair over her shoulders, her eyes flashing at me in a blatant challenge. “Why, Jeffery? Are you going to have me arrested for daring to speak about something that everyone back home is talking about?”

“You’re not back home. You’re in America. Still an illegal alien, may I remind you.”

“But you’re going to buy my freedom, right, Jeff?”

I stare at her. Shut her up. Now. “Please, continue.”

“There are talks that the opposition is financed by your government. They’ve been trying to trigger unrest all over the country. They wanted massive protests in the streets to break out and it is happening now. People are dying in the most violent way. They’re being used to oust President Maduro.”

“But isn’t that what you like? For Maduro to get ousted?”

“Not when after him, we’d get thrown to the more vicious beasts.”

“You mean, us Americans whom you are accusing of intervening in your country’s internal affairs. For what reason, may I ask?”

I feel like an idiot, throwing questions at her that are rhetorical.

She smiles bitterly. “What else? Oil. It’s your weakness, and my country’s full of it. Just like Saddam and Gadaffi, you want Maduro out of the picture because he doesn’t buy into your foreign policies. He has his own agenda and you don’t like it. But then again, you already know this, Jeff. You’re just toying with me.”

I don’t answer. My family’s interest in the oil industry is quite extensive. But we are merely investors, not the movers and shakers at the frontlines. I don’t meddle in politics, or wars, but I have enough power in my hands to help hand-pick the leaders of this country. And I certainly have enough power to twist some arms in high places.

It’s good to stay at The Tower and look down at Ground Zero. Ground Zero has a different vantage point looking at The Tower. Mara is from Ground Zero, a living, breathing testament of it. I am THE Tower.

It’s mightily unsettling me now to look in her eyes. I’ve never gotten up close and personal with anybody who might question my stand point on matters that involve my politics and business, morally or otherwise.

Until now. Until this woman. And God, she’s quite a revelation.

Truth be told, she’s dangerous. Not the kind of woman I should be letting into my life, into my bed. This should be THE deal-breaker.

But fuck me, I want her even more now.

“I wonder why you were allowed to enter this country when you have these views.”

Her defiance instantly deflates. She looks down at her fingers again, her shoulders slumping in dejection. Then she speaks softly, her voice brittle.

“I have never told anyone this. Just you. I put that life behind me when I left Venezuela. I wanted to have a new life here in this very country that I’ve long suspected of trying to sabotage my country.”

She meets my eyes again, and they are now wet with tears.

“Ironic isn’t it? But America is a walking contradiction. I had no place else to go. My country’s nearest neighbor is Colombia and it was out of the question for me to go there. America, despite its reputation around the word as a bully is quite amazingly kind to immigrants, refugees and even illegal aliens. Case in point, me. You. And I thank you, Jeff. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. My life rests in your hands. I will be forever in your debt.”

Her utter humility makes my insides burn painfully. No, it’s not humility I’m seeing. It’s defeat. And I hate it. Her spirit has been crushed. I have a feeling there is more to her story than she’s telling me, and I mean to find out.

I’m looking at her in a whole new light, my chest expanding with a feeling so scary, but I embrace it. She’s one of the smartest women I’ve ever known, and certainly the most courageous. She’s incredibly admirable, noble at heart, and I’ve met all kinds of women. Most were passionate, too, but were currency-driven. I’ve never met anybody like Mara, or maybe I’ve been associating with the wrong women.

It pains me to know that she’s been driven out of her country for daring to exercise her freedom of expression. She has so much talent, so much passion inside her, and beauty. She should be out there, doing what she loves. Writing about it. Speaking about it. But I know, I can’t let her do that. Not yet. Not until I’ve secured her safety.

The desolation in her eyes is killing me.

“Mara, promise me that you will not speak of this to anyone until I’ve secured your papers. Swear to me.”

She looks so brittle, her eyes glassy with the tears she’s not permitting to fall. So brave, my Mara.

“I…swear,” she says softly.

“Come here, baby.”

She hesitates only for a bit, then she crawls into my arms.

I envelope her in a tight embrace, making her feel that she’s safe with me.

And I swear to all the Vandercourt wealth and power, no one’s going to touch her.

I’m going to kill anybody who tries to harm her.