❝how would you feel if i told you i loved you? it's just something that i wanna do❞
When Violetta's parents' business starts to go down the drain, she's the only one that can help it. So she made a deal with the devil, and his father. She's thrown i...
(To put it simply, Diego is a jerk...but that's what all the development through Violetta's perspective was for! Also I AM SO SO SO SORRY!! I had no idea that I had updated that long ago! I can't believe how stupid I was, and inconsiderate, and everything else. Please forgive me for taking so long! I will try my best to update regularly because there aren't many chapters left, and I want to get this finished. I'm sorry again! Enjoy! xx)
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
اوووه! هذه الصورة لا تتبع إرشادات المحتوى الخاصة بنا. لمتابعة النشر، يرجى إزالتها أو تحميل صورة أخرى.
"UM, DIEGO I don't think I had your name down for an appointment today," Tayla, the secretary, says scanning the appointment book.
"That's probably because I do not have one," I tell her and she looks up, shocked. "He is on his lunch break right now. I can show myself in," I wink and she blushes.
That was probably my best tactic against her. If I smiled at her she blushed and forgot that I had not made an appointment and that I was practically barging in. I heard her protest as I closed the door behind me.
That aside, Tayla was beautiful. And if she was not my therapist's daughter I would gladly take her out on a date. She was sweet and had an aura of innocence around her...like Violetta. But her, I could freely have my way with.
Which was, in fact, why I was here.
Dr Dufre doesn't even look up as his door opens. He simply groans and grudgingly puts his ciabatta bread sandwich down. It was part of our lovely relationship: I came in whenever I wanted and he happily listen to me.
And I kept my 'filthy' hands off of his daughter.
"This is the second time this week, don't you have better things to do than ruin my lunch?" Dr Dufre asks, wiping his mouth before getting up.
He leaves his desk and walks to the chairs. I never liked to sit on that long seat (it made me feel like one of those low lifes who came to a therapist to talk about their fear of leaving the comfort of their sad apartment) so I sat on his armchair.
"It's a special situation. I have had one cold shower and to be honest, I'm sick of it," I explain to him and he nods.
