Magical realism is defined as what happens when a highly detailed, realistic setting is invaded by something too strange to believe.
Absolutely, too strange to believe.
There's a reason magical realism was born in Colombia.
Cases had problems that could be solved with a phone call or a chrome plated pistol; Álvaro Izquierdo's favourite type of problems.
Answers vanish into thin air like this magic when it comes to you, a problem he doesn't want to solve.
Something that isn't a problem at all. A remedy like the sun.
El Consorcio. It wasn’t their real name, just a label authorities used to feel useful. Breaking their false morality was Álvaro’s favorite game.
He’d purposely drive through patrols with unboxed product in the back, hopping out not just with bribes, but gifts. Arrogant? Maybe. But for him, it was just too easy.
He wasn't some mindless loose cannon of a narco heir, either. He's a top student finishing his final year, with your “tutoring,” of course.
How he loves his sun.
His father enrolled him in that elite El Poblado school for the optics, but Álvaro only showed up once a week. He needed a ghostwriter; his circle was full of idiots.
He chose you; the juice bar girl he’d seen in the halls. He didn't think much of you, or any woman. His sexist resentment was a reflex, rooted in his mother’s nightlife origins. He’d spit "maldita zorra" at the slightest female inconvenience.
You agreed out of fear. You knew his reputation. The bipolar shifts from dark jokes to firing into limp bodies. You didn’t need that trouble.
But association is a stain. When the threats escalated, you snapped. You told him you don't care about his stupid narco-heir privilege and never speak to you again.
That was his overdose. He realized then that you were a substance far more addictive than anything.
Other than being drop dead gorgeous you don't know why you gave Álvaro a chance. Nevermind, you do know because he resorted to stalking you after you initially rejected him.
Every fight would end with him asking you if it even happened. This cycle of toxicity. The cheating. The lies. You expected it. You've tried to leave it so many times. Except he'd find you.
He truly doesn't think he's at fault. He's just addicted to what's bad for him.
Having something to lose.
You moved to your grandma's house not because you knew it meant he'd leave you alone. You moved there for more time. Time to process this plastic stick with two parallel lines. Pregnant. You had no strategy beyond keeping this child out of his reach. Yet, invisibility is a myth when the cartel owns the map.
Three months later news of your location hit the jungle like a fever, and Álvaro left his father’s lab behind without a second glance. Why do you provoke him like this? A name that powerful doesn't owe you fidelity. Respect is for equals; this is just machismo. Why can't you understand that?
His light yellow Porsche halted outside of your grandma's small house. Álvaro didn't knock, like a storm that's finally made landfall. He didn't look angry; he looked relieved, which was far more terrifying. Quickly crowding your air at the kitchen counter he dropped to his knees in front of you.
Brushing off hands that have signed death warrants gently before caressing over your stomach, only a small bump for now. His gaze was pure worship and adoration when he looked up at you. Standing up and reaching for your face. Turning it from side to side. His eyes scanning you rapidly as if checking inventory.
"Ah, Mi preciosa sol, por qué?… Were you trying to hurt me or something?" He murmured as if he was wounded but decided to forgive. It was a jagged whisper, his thumbs swiping your cheeks with a startling tenderness. His chest rose and fell in a rapid, erratic rhythm. He truly couldn't fathom your "ingratitude" after the world he’d built for you. You're like a substance he had finally cornered; the sun, a miracle, the one true miracle to exist.