...BELEN CLINT...

I had the fortune, or perhaps misfortune, of growing up in an orphanage. It all depends on the perspective of each individual.

Parents were not a part of my life. The owner of this place told me I was found at the entrance wrapped in an old blanket, but nobody knows who left me here or where I come from.

I never had the luck of being adopted, and therefore I never had parents. The woman who became a mother to me was the one who gave me her last name before I reached legal adulthood, but she was already sick and died shortly thereafter.

With the money I received, I paid three months' rent at a small boarding house and dedicated myself to job hunting in order to start covering my expenses. Even if I had wanted to, I couldn't attend university; I had neither the money nor a job.

The only places where someone like me could find employment were in nightclubs, dancing for gentlemen of dubious reputation—a line of work I would never consider. Other options included being a waitress in bars, cafes, or doing cleaning jobs at various locations or private homes.

I walked the streets and found a job at a coffee shop where they gave us a blue apron and a white shirt to wear, along with a scarf to keep our hair tied back. I was content with this since I didn't have many clothes to wear.

Shifts ranged from eight to twelve hours, depending on the day of the week, as it was open twenty-four hours a day. At night, they also served hamburgers and some fast food.

The salary was really low, but the tips made up for everything else. It was either work there or die of hunger and sleep on the streets, so I put on my best smile every day, ready to work overtime even if it meant cleaning the place.

Many men said things that made me uncomfortable, especially the nocturnal clientele, so I tried to socialize as little as possible. I would greet, take orders, deliver what was requested, charge, and say goodbye.

An inspection shut down the fast-food service at night, so my hours and earnings were cut, and I had to look for another job to sustain myself. It was hard to survive, and I realized that the life I had led for years was comfortable, although I had cursed it several times.

Eventually, a bar was looking for a waitress, so I went there and immediately got the job. I would start that very night. The uniform consisted of red shoes with ten-centimeter heels, a skirt or tight-fitting shorts depending on the day of the week, and a fitted white shirt.

I disliked wearing such clothes, hated them more than anything, and didn't know how to walk in heels; carrying a tray was going to be a challenge.

I arrived early before my shift to change and practice walking with the heels and tray. I focused on performing well or I would be fired—and besides, the pay was good and I desperately needed it.

So, I began my job, receiving many looks that made me feel exposed, bold compliments, and indecent proposals amounting to being treated like a woman selling her body, but the tips were the best part.

After a month of working there, I was fortunate enough to have a few dollars for my expenses and to improve my nutrition. I decided that as soon as I found better employment, I would leave this job immediately because even though it paid well, I would never get used to it.

Walking in heels for several hours in an environment where people were often stumbling from drink was a challenge for a novice like me. Sometimes I was more than tired and came home with blisters on my feet, but I couldn't afford to leave.

That's how one night, thanks to a drunk regular, I tripped, and what I had on the tray fell onto a very handsome young man who looked to be about twenty-five.

He helped me up and gave me a smile; I apologized to him. The last thing I needed was to lose my job and be left without money, but he was so kind to me I felt captivated.

He was well-dressed and groomed, with short blond hair and brown eyes. He had a beautiful smile, long eyelashes, and a very neat and well-kept beard. He was the most beautiful man I believed I had ever met.

It was all because of those damn heels. If I had known who he would turn out to be and everything I would go through, I would have lived under a bridge without giving it much thought.

Maicol Stuart was his name. He dazzled me and, inexperienced in life as I was, I let myself be seduced, believing he would be my knight in shining armor, the man of my naïve dreams, the guardian angel who would rescue me from this life of solitude that had been my only true companion. Unfortunately, not everything that glitters is gold, and every human being has secrets; his were very dark.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the third part of "I'm Not Your Fan". If you haven't read that novel or "Let Me Sail With You", don't worry because it's not related to the previous protagonists but stands alone.

There will be intense scenes due to violent content and inappropriate language, but even though the initial theme will showcase violence, I promise there will also be romance.

Thank you for joining me on this story which is currently being released but will have ongoing updates.

...XAVIER AMERY...

I just received the greatest joy of my life at thirty. My girlfriend of three years agreed to be my wife and confessed she's pregnant.

I was born into an upper-middle-class family of American origin. My father started a small business that gradually made money and expanded its horizons. The production of sportswear has steadily propelled us to the top.

I studied, prepared sufficiently, and actively became involved in my parents' business. I have an older brother who's a lawyer.

Ever since I became CEO, everything has improved in our lives, our income multiplied, I bought my first apartment, and achieved complete independence.

I always sought a partner who could provide some stability, but with so many commitments and work, that was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

I fell in love with Amber, a beautiful, intelligent, loving, kind woman. I pictured a life by her side with children of our own, but then I found her in bed with a supposed university peer when she was supposed to be at a study group. That ended our relationship; infidelity, to me, is unforgivable, a despicable act.

Ludmila came into my life later, a stunning brunette with a sweet and serene personality. She brought peace and certainty that everything in my life was in the right order. Once again, everything felt meaningful, and she seemed like the perfect woman for me. Comparing her to Amber, I realized I had been blinded before. Ludmila had to be my wife.

I bought a ring to propose she spends her life by my side, but when I went to surprise her, it was I who was stunned. She was crying and showed me a lab test confirming she was pregnant. I was so happy that I silenced my conscience's voice, which had always protected me.

"Xavier, I'm sorry, you're a great man, but there's someone else in my life," she walked away from me.

"Is the child not mine?" I asked with a lump in my throat and labored breathing.

"No, you didn't give me what I needed. You're a great man, but I have needs you can't fulfill, I'm sorry," she apologized after it felt like she had pierced my heart with a merciless sharp dagger.

I gave the ring I had bought to a colleague who wanted to propose to his girlfriend but didn't have the money for such a detail. I could no longer bear to see it.

I felt shame, disappointment, and profound sadness. The woman I thought was ideal had cheated on me, become pregnant by another, and treated me as nothing in bed. It was the height of disillusionment, the shattering of a romantic relationship.

I rarely had relations after that. My pride was deeply wounded, and the last thing I wanted was to fall in love and be let down by another woman.

As a model for one of the company's collections, I met Virginia Santamaria. A blonde woman, sweet, likable. We talked, and I was charmed by her way of expression. I asked her on a date, and after that, with great caution, we began to grow closer until I was finally sure of my feelings and hers.

My family did not approve of her, but upon investigating and finding her record clean, they did not interfere with my relationship.

After two years together, I proposed that she become my wife. She confessed her pregnancy, and I believed we were destined, nonsense.

She wanted to get married right away before the pregnancy became noticeable, and no dress would flatter her slender figure, which she was so proud of. I granted her wish, and we had a grand and luxurious wedding.

The honeymoon was fit for royalty, but upon returning, I noticed she was no longer the same. She appeared depressed and sometimes furious even with the air she breathed.

I heard her complain about the pregnancy and losing her figure. I thought it was a phase, that she might change her mind later, perhaps due to hormones or a hint of depression. I showered her with attention, treated her like the queen she was to me, but nothing was enough.

My sweet and beloved Virginia seemed to have changed. Her joy was gone; we attended couple's therapy, as well as individual psychological therapy. I would do anything to make her happy and ensure her well-being.

Jealousy ensued, but my eyes were only for her.

As the months went by, we learned she was expecting a boy. I was ecstatic; it's what I longed for, but as I celebrated, she cried in distress, looking at her swollen belly. She started trying to lose weight afterward, and my concern grew.

The pregnancy was turning my relationship into a nightmare, always worried about my child's safety, but I was at a loss. I tried everything for her, but it seemed never to be enough.

...XAVIER AMERY...

The pregnancy progressed, and with it, my marriage's troubles worsened significantly. Some told me this was depression, but I couldn't fathom why. If she was concerned about her figure, I could assist her in regaining her pre-pregnancy shape after our child was born.

I contemplated setting up a large home gym with a personal trainer for her and even paying for any necessary surgeries, such as breast augmentation post-breastfeeding, but things did not pan out as I hoped.

"I'm not breastfeeding. Who do you take me for?" she was more than offended and enraged.

"But darling, the doctor said it's better for the baby because it..." she cut me off mid-sentence, yelling for silence.

"Darling nothing. If you loved me, you'd understand, but of course... all you want is to ruin me so that later no one will look at me, plus you want me trapped here. I know that's what you desire, but it won't happen," I was dumbfounded.

"What? Tell me you're joking. Ruin you? Trap you?" I was stunned.

"I want to go back to work, and this child won't stop me, nor will you. I care little for what my breasts produce; it would be the end of my career. They would sag, and no one would hire me again. Do you know how many sit-ups and treatments I will need to make my abdomen flat again?" Was it all about this? And what about our child?

"Love, you'll be a mother, and you'll still be just as beautiful to me. Don't fret over trivialities. I'll love you just the same, my dear," I attempted to reason with her, having never been one for superficiality; her arguments lacked any solid foundation.

"I want to remain beautiful, but you'll replace me with another. Cursed be the day I let myself become pregnant; the sex wasn't even that good," she said disdainfully, leaving me speechless.

I went to work, spending more time at the office. Another complaint about my sexual performance, but this time from my wife. What a curse. I gave her love, understanding, and I was super open to discuss anything necessary, what more could I do?

My ego was shattered, dead and buried. I had been affectionate, showering her with kisses and caresses, doing everything she liked. So, were all those moans fake? I couldn't believe it. Things should not have been this way.

Besides the issues surrounding her figure and noticing her belly wasn't growing as much as it should, our relationship was dissolving. They say pregnancy hormones can cause significant mood swings, but she changed drastically, never to return to her former self. There were no good days.

When our child's birth was imminent, she adamantly refused a cesarean section, regardless of the risk to our child, claiming it would be "my fault." All I wanted was the well-being of my wife and child, why make everything more difficult?

It was a critical moment fraught with tension, but she ultimately told me a cesarean would ruin her life as a model and dashed her hopes of becoming an actress after recovery.

She was being selfish, pushing me to the edge of my patience. Finally, our child was born underweight because she hadn't eaten properly, and she wept upon rising from bed and seeing herself in the mirror, while I diligently cared for our baby since she wouldn't even look at him.

"Won't you feed him? Don't you want to hold him?" I asked, hoping for a change of heart.

"No, let me sleep. I already carried him for nine months; now it's your turn, or hire someone," I looked at our son and then at her with sorrow.

My family came to meet him and immediately sensed my profound sadness, a sentiment I couldn't conceal. My mother stayed with her and our child, allowing me to go home for a shower and a change of clothes. I needed to breathe, even if it was just for ten minutes.

When I returned to the room, my mother expressed her dissatisfaction with my wife's lack of affection towards our son.

"Xavier, here is the reason we doubted her becoming part of our family, but you wouldn't listen," she said seriously, visibly upset.

"I love her, mom. Maybe it's just depression," I tried to defend her.

"Depression? You're an intelligent man, and your wife lacks maternal instinct. I hope you do what's right," she warned and attempted to leave, but I caught her hand.

"Advise me, mother, I beseech you," I pleaded earnestly.

"Get a divorce and fight for sole custody of my grandson. How many more signs do you need to realize she's not *right* for you?"