The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER TWO

The first time I clapped my eyes on Daniel Lewis, I fainted.

No, really. I temporarily lost consciousness after accidentally head-butting him in secondary school, right outside the headmaster's office, in front of first-year students, sour-faced teachers and not-so-prosocial popular kids.

In my defence, I never expected someone to come around the corner of the stairs the exact moment I did. Daniel was unmindful of the lackadaisical pace of directionless imbeciles, too, when bounding through the school like a force to be reckoned with, his entourage of familiar faces in tow.

Daniel was unfamiliar, though. A new kid in town, heart-meltingly pretty, heavenly blue eyes and the wickedest of smiles. I somehow managed to marvel at the boy's handsome features and impressive panache for all of two seconds when, to my complete and utter embarrassment, I fell backwards—multi-coloured ring binders and sheets of lined paper dropping from the sky like an invasion of dead birds—whacked my head on the step and passed out on the floor.

Not my finest moment in history.

Daniel's face was the first thing I saw through the visual strain of blurriness when my eyes flew open. There he loomed, with a ring of light above his head, like a guardian angel, watching over me, his blond, luscious hair falling over his brow in stylish disarray. He exuded an effortless charm with his impeccable sense of style, pearly-white teeth and selfless concern for others. I melted, inside and out.

It was love at first sight, souls colliding and emotions entwining.

At least, that's what I told myself when he checked me into the nurse's office and jokingly told me to lay off the alcohol for a while.

But then, with a level of ignorance, no less, Daniel went about his day and forgot about the clumsy, awkward introvert in the stairwell, the one he inadvertently sparked out with the violent blow of his head.

I never expected us to be best buddies, but you would think the happenstance of our near-death experience would have, at the minimum, put me on his radar. You know, a friendly smile, every so often, or a bit of recognition and acknowledgement.

Alas, I did not impact Daniel the way he had impacted me. Whilst I found myself daydreaming about him during lectures, wondering if he would ever invite me to one of his famous house parties or ask me to sit with him and his friends for lunch in the cafeteria, he never batted an eyelid at me.

Each passing day was an embarrassing reminder that he did not look at me the way I looked at him. I was a forgotten memory, a random person, an unmemorable face in the crowd.

I wish he were so easily forgettable. But, no. He had to go and make himself unforgettable, completely memorable, the newest addition to my list of obsessions (I may or may not have a persistently disturbing preoccupation with several confectionaries). I was smitten by him, spellbound, concerningly infatuated and borderline stalkerish.

That summer, I learnt everything there is to know about Daniel Lewis. He is the youngest of three siblings, with two older sisters by the names of Darlene and Davina. His mother, Virginia Lewis, the lady of leisure with a life of luxury, thought it would be a good idea if all her children had matching initials. His father, Walter Lewis, is a British millionaire, media baron and successful entrepreneur.

The Lewis family owned a timeless Georgian property in the heart of South East England, an imposing manor—flanked by artfully arranged trees, an impressive fleet of classic supercars and nosey neighbours who pretended to walk their ankle-biting chihuahuas just to get a glimpse of the owner's only son—splurged across acres of manicured greenery and picturesque views of the Cornish coast.