Chapter 22 Chapter 22 Meet Another Investor.
Gabriel’s POV
While headed home, I tried to steady my thoughts. Frustration gnawed at me, but one thing was clear—I couldn’t risk showing up without the bag her ladyship at home demanded.
I turned into a fashion store, the bright lights doing nothing to ease the weight pressing on my chest like a boulder chained to my soul, dragging me deeper into the abyss of my own despair.
“Can I help you?” the salesperson asked, their smile overly practiced.
“I need a designer bag,” I replied curtly.
“This one costs 10 grand, sir,” they said, holding up a sleek, branded piece.
My stomach churned. Ten thousand dollars—for a bag. I’d already scoured the entire store, and this was the cheapest option that fit the profile. There was no escaping it.
“I’ll take it,” I said, the words tasting bitter in my mouth.
“Okay, sir. Please hold on while we pack it for you.”
Less than a minute later, the bag was handed to me, encased in luxury wrapping. The guilt didn’t wait—it hit as I stepped out of the store. That money could’ve gone into my business, my savings—anything other than feeding her insatiable demands like she was some vulture that needed the sacrifices every morning and every night.
I arrived home and handed the bag to Emmanuella.
“Wow, you got me a new designer!” she exclaimed, her voice as sugary as her excitement was hollow. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and walked away without a glance back, just as if she were not the one who demanded it, who wanted it and made it a must that I get it for her.
Once upon a time, coming home meant warmth. I’d open the door to hugs, laughter, and a woman who cared—who really cared. She’d ask about my day, about the deals I was trying to close, and when I struggled, she’d stay up late with me, researching and brainstorming. She had a knack for making me see solutions I couldn’t find myself. And together, we’d win. We'd always win.
But now, ever since I foolishly divorced and married Emmanuella, nothing came without strings. Her love was a transaction. Her joy was a show. Even the meals she prepared—always sour, always lacking—were conditional.
I sank onto the couch, exhaustion pulling at my bones. My frustration with her wasn’t new, but it felt sharper today. Watching her flit around the bedroom, trying on outfits to match the bag, I felt an ache—not just from hunger but from the emptiness that had seeped into every corner of my life.
But I couldn’t let it consume me.
I couldn’t afford to lose.
My thoughts pivoted to my business, the only thing that still gave me a sense of purpose. Lorenzo was gone—he’d partnered with Valentine Conglomerate. That ship had sailed, and dwelling on it wouldn’t bring it back.
Pulling out my laptop, I typed into Google: “influential fashionistas in my country.”
The search results flooded the screen. One name stood out immediately: Chris Bruno Mars.
Chris was a fashion icon, the kind of influencer who could turn any brand into gold overnight. Many big brands have used him in the past, and none have failed to become a best seller for nothing less than a year. If I moved fast—before anyone else—there was a chance I could get him to promote my shoes. Seeing the Moretti brand on him could skyrocket my sales.
“A perfect plan,” I muttered, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I drafted an email.
Email to Chris Bruno Mars
Dear Fashionista Chris Bruno Mars,
I hope this message finds you well. My name is Gabriel Moretti, and I am the founder of Moretti Shoes, a brand dedicated to combining elegance, comfort, and innovation in footwear.
Your impeccable style and influence in the fashion industry have inspired countless individuals. I believe your unique presence aligns perfectly with the vision and ethos of our brand. It would be an honor to collaborate with you as a brand ambassador, showcasing our latest collections and embodying the essence of Moretti Shoes.
If you’re interested, I’d love to discuss this opportunity further and explore how we can make this partnership both exciting and mutually rewarding. Please let me know a convenient time for a call or meeting, or feel free to reply with any initial thoughts.
Thank you for considering this opportunity. I look forward to your response and the possibility of working together.
Warm regards,
Gabriel Moretti
CEO, Moretti Shoes
[email protected]
www.morettishoes.com
As soon as I hit send, my stomach growled loudly, a sharp reminder of how long it had been since I’d eaten.
I stood up, intending to steal something from the kitchen, but Emmanuella emerged from the bedroom before I could take a step.
She was radiant, wearing nothing but lingerie that clung to her like a second skin. Her breasts were perfectly framed, her hips swaying to an invisible rhythm. She looked every bit the goddess she wanted the world to believe she was.
Thus, at this moment, with her gentle hands, she loosened the rope on her lingerie, and everything fell, leaving alone her soft standing breast and her nipples staring at me right in the face. And her face—she was purposely crafting to bring me to bed with her.
But I couldn’t summon any enthusiasm. Instead, my lips pressed into a thin line. I knew this display wasn’t for me—not really. It was another transaction. If I hadn’t bought the bag, there’d be no lingerie, no swaying hips, no sultry smile.
She approached me with a smirk, running her fingers down my arm. “Pull down your pants, baby boy,” she commanded, her voice dripping with authority.
My heart sank but I obeyed. There was no other choice.
I loosened my belt, unzipped my pants, and pulled out my soft, reluctant member.
“Make it stand now,” she demanded.
Closing my eyes, I reached for myself, stroking mechanically, trying to coax life into something that had no desire to rise.
And as I did, one thought lingered: This isn’t love. This isn’t life. But it’s survival.