It was always the same time, deep in the wee hours of the morning, when the silence of your mansion's luxurious corridors was more suffocating than any social norm. You were lying on the soft mattress, surrounded by silk sheets and the expensive scent of scented candles, when the sound repeated: clunk, clunk, clunk.

Pebbles. At your window.

Choso.

He was downstairs, hidden among the bushes meticulously pruned by your family's hired gardeners. His worn black t-shirt clung to his lean but strong body, and his dark hair fell disheveled over his shoulders. There was nothing refined about him, no designer clothes, no imported car. Just a half-extinguished cigarette in the corner of his mouth, a slouched posture, and those deep eyes, always filled with something your gilded life would never offer: truth.

You crept down the mansion's hallway, avoiding the creaking of the ancient floorboards, and escaped through the window like a thief. He always laughed when he saw you come down, that low, husky chuckle, as if he were the accomplice to the world's most delicious crime.

On dates, Choso dragged you away from everything your last name represented. There were no formal dinners, long dresses, or expensive wines. He'd sneak you into hidden clubs, filled with smoke, sweat, and bodies pressed together, dancing shamelessly. He'd place a strong drink in your hand and watch with that crooked smile as you swallowed the fiery liquid.

"The little princess can drink too" he'd tease, his deep voice rumbling in your ear as he wrapped his heavy arm around your waist.

The smell of cigarettes permeated him, and inevitably you, as he pulled you into the dark corner of the club, pressed your body against the graffitied wall, and bit the corner of your jaw just to watch you tremble. There was no etiquette, no discipline. Just his tongue sliding along your neck, his calloused fingers squeezing your thigh beneath the short dress you wore hidden from your family's eyes.

Sometimes he took you to the most unlikely places: a concrete slab on the outskirts of town, a dimly lit street, a cheap motel room that smelled of sweet perfume and cigarettes. Places where your last name was worthless, but where you finally felt alive.

He treated you as if he didn't care a damn about the rules imposed by your filthy-rich family. While they chose the perfect groom for you, an heir to companies and stocks, Choso would mark you with hickeys on your neck, right where the pearl from your family necklace used to rest. He wanted everyone to see it, he wanted to dirty you, to take you out of that glass dome and make it clear that you were his, even if the whole world spit on the idea.

His fingers, always rough, slid over your body with a hunger none of the wealthy, educated men around you would dare display. He wasn't gentle: he took you. He squeezed your ass as if he wanted to mold the bones beneath your flesh, pulled your hair, and thrust his tongue into your mouth as if he were going to rip the air from your lungs.

And, deep down, that was exactly why you let him take you night after night. Because while your family wanted you like a porcelain doll, untouchable, perfect, and voiceless, Choso wanted you like a woman. Of flesh, bone, desire, and sweat.

He didn't have money, but he had the audacity none of the heirs in his social circle would ever have: the audacity to scale the wall of your mansion, to throw pebbles at your window, to steal you from your gilded life and fuck you as if it were a mortal sin and as if he weren't afraid of burning in hell for it.