She's not perfect, she's a raging storm.
He's utopian, yet far from Elysium.
Kang Ambrosia: the quintessential femme fatale, an austere workaholic with absolutely ZERO time for romance.
Perfect on the outside, yet an unfinished masterpiece.
Park...
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Sunrise with you on my chest No blinds in the place where I live Daybreak open your eyes 'Cause this was only ever meant to be for one night. -Falling All in You by Shawn Mendes.
SUMMER
Somewhere in the Ionian Sea.
"ANOTHER ROSÉ, ma'am?" The bartender asked the young woman after she downed her third glass of fizzy pink goodness.
"Just leave the whole bottle here. I'm in the mood to celebrate," she flashed him a smile, twirling her half-empty flute of champagne around by the rim. She had no idea why, but she was happy, exhilarated even. The workaholic hadn't felt like this in years. Heck, she didn't even remember what it felt like to be absolutely free.
She guessed it was because of the beauty of Ithaca, the glowing fairy lights, crystal clear teal water now black in the moonlight.
"Now, now. Planning to get tipsy off of a single bottle of champagne, are we?" A smooth voice interrupted her blissful solitude. She nearly scoffed at his tone, his manner of ridiculing her.
"Why? Do I look like a lightweight to you?" She raised an eyebrow, deeply offended by this stranger's mocking. She kept her eyes trained on her flute of Rosé.
Slowly turning towards the source of cacophony, she looked down upon his amused figure with an upturned nose. The speaker, a dashing man of about her age, bit his lower lip. His narrow eyes seemed to be performing a detailed apodyopsis of her scantily clad frame, mentally undressing her as they travelled up and down her body.
She smirked, accustomed to enchanting men with her half- Greek, half- Korean looks. As a child, she was nicknamed Aphrodite, goddess of love and beauty, by her European mother. Now, at the age of twenty-four, she'd surely proven that name as apt.
Wearing a tiny silver strap dress surely took away from her goddess-like appeal, but made her look more alluring than usual.
He finally spoke, orbs leaving her body to meet hers, "Can't say you don't look like one."
She blamed his sensual eyes and infuriatingly plump lips pulled up into a judgemental smirk for what she said next. It was either that or the alcohol, but what were three glasses of champagne to her anyways?
Barely an appetizer.
"I'd love to prove you wrong," she tossed her hair over her shoulder, turning to the bartender again, "I'd like six shots here, please."
"Just six? That sounds easy-"
"Make that twelve."
Raised in a poor family living in the middle of Asia's largest slum, Dharavi in Mumbai; she'd practically brought herself to the top from nothing. Along with large encompasses of money came a vicious competitive streak. She couldn't stand it if anyone told her that she wasn't capable of doing something.
