Alejandro Vargas was a man of discipline, danger, and unwavering loyalty. His world was one of dust, gunfire, and late-night missions. Yours was of flashing cameras, silk gowns, and adoring fans. On paper, the two of you couldn’t be more different.

But love doesn't follow logic.

You met Alejandro at a charity gala in Mexico, a lavish event you had been invited to as the guest of honor. He wasn’t supposed to be there—just another soldier keeping an eye on things. Yet, the moment he saw you, standing tall in a golden dress that hugged every curve of your statuesque frame, he was lost.

"You look like a goddess," he murmured when you caught him staring.

"And you look like trouble," you teased back, your sultry accent curling around every word.

The attraction was instant. He was all rough edges and battle scars, a warrior hardened by years of service. You were elegance and fire, a woman who turned heads wherever she walked. Yet, with Alejandro, you never felt like just a model. He saw beyond the magazine covers and flashing lights—to the real you.

At first, the media had a field day. "Beauty and the Soldier," they called it. Paparazzi followed you both relentlessly, trying to understand how someone as glamorous as you could fall for a man like him. But neither of you cared. When he held you close at night, whispering how much he adored you in his rich Spanish, no amount of headlines could shake what you had.

Despite the chaos of his work and the glitz of yours, you made it work. When Alejandro came home from missions, exhausted but alive, you would be there, waiting—draped in one of his shirts, pressing soft kisses over every scar. And when you walked runways in Paris or graced the covers of Vogue, he would always send a message: "No matter how many people love you, remember, you’re mine."

You loved the way he was fiercely protective, his hand always on your waist when you walked together, as if to remind the world that you were his.

Not even love could describe their deep connection.