The text I had just received was something I never could have imagined even in my wildest nightmares. If my ex had chosen this moment to blackmail me, of all days, why would it be today—my supposed "day one" with Harry? The thought alone made my stomach churn. The entire message screamed of someone hiding close by, observing, waiting for the perfect moment. It was inconceivable. I had never believed Richard was the type to "kiss and tell," and yet, here it was, proof otherwise. Thank God I had left him when I did.
I sat frozen, heart hammering, bracing myself for Harry to react. I expected a flare of anger, a dramatic storm, maybe even him walking away like the protagonists in every romance movie I'd ever watched. But Harry... he simply looked at me, calm and unbothered, as if the world had paused around us. With a gentle, unwavering tone, he asked again, "If it's fine by you, my lady, shall we make this our day one? Or do you have another idea... another day?"
I was stunned. Utterly speechless. My mouth felt glued shut as I tried to process his words.
"Uh... I have no reason to say no," I finally managed, my voice a little shaky but warm. "Harry, I know it's barely been seventy-two hours since we met, but you've been... amazing. Truly. But if I'm honest, my day one—it started Friday morning." I giggled at my own audacity, feeling a flutter in my chest.
Harry's response was perfect—a wide, approving smile that made his eyes sparkle, his nod full of quiet affirmation. In that moment, we shared a connection so palpable it seemed to light up the room. And as if the universe itself were conspiring in our favor, the music changed. The thumping hip-hop of our arrival shifted into a soft, classic romantic tune that wrapped around us like an invisible embrace. I smiled to myself—surely the heavens were on our side.
And then... the unimaginable happened.
Richard. My ex. Walking toward our table with that infuriating, self-assured swagger that had always gotten under my skin. His presence was like a cold gust cutting through a warm summer evening. I had forgotten, or maybe I had allowed myself to forget, just how rude and intrusive he could be. Love, or maybe blind optimism, had shielded me from seeing the full truth before—but today, there was no ignoring it.
"What does he want now?" I whispered to myself, panic rising. "Surely, he isn't planning to... drag me away from here?" My fear materialized as Richard reached my side, his hands gripping my arms and yanking me toward him. Shock froze me for a fraction of a second.
And then Harry's voice cut through the tension like a sword. "Is there a problem, young man? That's my woman you're dragging right there." Calm, yet laced with lethal warning. Every muscle in his body radiated readiness, and I could sense that a battle was imminent.
Richard sneered, trying to assert his false authority. "Well, I had her first. Yes, we broke up, but it hasn't been long. I'm here to make peace... and to make her mine again. I doubt you can even pay her bills, considering you're just an Uber driver." Typical Richard—always terrible with words, always trying to wound.
I had reached my limit. I stood abruptly, my chair scraping against the floor, and delivered a sharp, feminine slap that echoed my annoyance and defiance.
But the twist came next. Harry rose to his full height, exuding confidence and controlled rage. He grabbed Richard by the arm and yanked him outside the restaurant, likely to prevent a scene. And then, in one fluid, terrifying motion, he unleashed a punch fueled by anger and protectiveness—the kind of punch that makes you realize Harry was not a man to be trifled with.
In that instant, my fear, my shock, my thrill—they all collided into one electric moment. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this intensity, and yet, for the first time, I felt a fierce, unshakable sense of safety at Harry's side.
I couldn't help but think staying back in the restaurant would have been the wiser choice. In barely sixty seconds of heated altercations between the two of them, a crowd had gathered—at least fifteen spectators, some on their way to their cars after dinner, others just arriving, and a few curious passersby from nearby stores and restaurants. It had quickly become a free evening show, the kind no one pays for but everyone stops to watch.
A small part of me, shamefully, felt a strange satisfaction at the thought of being the reason they were clashing. But beneath that fleeting thrill, I could already sense trouble simmering. The physical blows had slowed, yet the exchange of words showed no signs of cooling. Richard's lips were split, a thin trail of blood staining his mouth as he spat every few seconds with a grimace. Harry's shirt was crumpled and hanging awkwardly from the struggle, though no immediate injuries were visible. Still, I couldn't shake the fear that by morning, hidden bruises—or worse, a fractured bone—might reveal themselves.
As the chaos seemed to ebb, I gathered the courage to step closer, foolishly thinking I could mediate. But the fury burning in their eyes was enough to tell me peace was far out of reach. That kind of rage isn't calmed by words; it devours them.
And just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, the unexpected unfolded. My instincts screamed, and without a second thought, I sprinted toward the nearest security post. Breathless, I called for immediate assistance. Within five minutes, the flashing lights and commanding voices of the police descended on the scene, sealing what had started as a public spectacle into something far graver.
From the point of arrest to the ride to the police station, Harry sat in silence, his jaw set tight, eyes fixed on the window as though speaking a single word would only fuel the fire. Richard, on the other hand, was far from quiet. He squirmed, muttered, and cursed under his breath, unable to accept what was happening. His agitation wasn't really about the fight—I could sense that clearly—it was about me. About the fact that I wouldn't yield, wouldn't give him the conversation he demanded. That rejection cut deeper than any bruise.
At one point, his muttering grew so loud and pitiful it almost sounded rehearsed, like he wanted me to hear every line of guilt and accusation. Harry, unable to contain himself, chuckled dryly. The laughter was sharp, deliberate—a reminder to Richard that his performance wasn't moving anyone. That small sound only twisted the knife deeper into Richard's pride.
At the station, things became clinical. Each of us was made to sit and write down our accounts. My mind ran in circles, but my statement was straightforward: Richard was my ex, and he had become a stalker. Harry was only trying to protect me—because anyone who has lived through such stories knows stalkers are dangerous. Sometimes they snap, and when they do, people get hurt.
As I pressed the pen harder into the paper, a question tugged at me: was I exaggerating? Had Richard truly crossed the line into obsession, or was I painting him that way because it was convenient? Then I remembered the documentaries I had seen—smiling women recalling how they ignored the early signs, how they convinced themselves it was harmless, until one night it wasn't. Most of those stories didn't end well. No, I couldn't afford to gamble with mine.
When the officer read through the statements, his brow furrowed with the weight of it. He finally looked Richard dead in the eye and asked, "Mr. Richard, for how long have you been stalking Miss Camila?"
The room froze. Richard's reaction was instant and visceral—eyes wide, mouth agape, disbelief flooding his expression. He leaned forward, his voice sharp, almost desperate. "Stalking? This is the first time I've seen her since the breakup! How am I suddenly a stalker?" His words trembled with a dangerous mix of anger and wounded pride.
But there was something else in his face—something manipulative. His gaze flicked to me, as though trying to reach past the officer, trying to pull me back into his version of the story. His eyes pleaded one moment, accused the next, silently screaming that I was betraying him.
What unsettled him most, though, was Harry. Harry's statement mirrored mine, almost word for word. We hadn't planned it, hadn't even looked at each other while writing, yet fate had aligned our truths into one strong rope binding him. For Richard, it was two against one, and he knew it. His eyes darted between us, desperate, calculating, but already cornered.
The officer didn't waste time. His voice was steady, official, leaving no room for debate. "Mr. Richard, you will be issued a restraining order. Effective immediately, you are not permitted to approach or contact Miss Camila."
Richard's mouth opened as if to protest, but no words came out. His silence now carried more weight than all his mutters on the ride here. For the first time, he seemed to realize he was losing—not just the fight outside, not just me, but the narrative itself.
I allowed myself a small smile, meeting Harry's gaze across the sterile room. He returned it with the faintest curve of his lips. For once tonight, I felt safe—though deep inside, a chilling thought whispered: men like Richard don't let go easily.
There are more oceans of trouble yet to cross, and I know this restraining order is only the first fragile bridge. But for tonight, that is enough. Tonight, I allow myself to breathe. Tonight, I let the chaos rest, knowing it has already carved itself into memory—a memory sharp enough to linger for a very long time.