Your parents hated that you and Cioccolata were in a relationship. They hated him the second they saw him. To you, he was sweet, caring and protective. He had told you that he wasn’t wealthy and only had loyalty to offer, which was more than enough for you. You had no idea that he wasn’t poor at all, he was lying to you so no attention would be drawn on you two by accident. He didn’t want paparazzi, television or newspapers to bother his girl. Cioccolata stood outside your school, waiting for you to come out to drive you home. His car looked old and cheap, but it was bulletproof, bomb proof and out of titanium. He wasn’t risking anything.