Romans & histoires Make War Not Love

I don't believe in marriage and love, or whatever nonsense this world invented. Because if love was real, married couples wouldn't separate, like what Adam and I are planning to do eventually. If love was true, there wouldn't be parentless children in orphanages. If love was real, men wouldn't seek other women even if they were married, like Crisanto - oh yeah, he's my biological father - ever since high school I stopped calling him Dad, why bother? He never loved me or my Mom. I don't know if he loved my mom or if he just stayed for the money.

He turned back to me and his eyes showed he dropped our little banter we had like two second’s ago. “That’s not going to work today darling. We will discuss it tonight and you will come to a conclusion before you leave this room.” I pout as I give my mum the same puppy eye look, she was always resistant to it, but it’s worth a try? To answer my question, no she’s still resistant to it. She turned to me with a look that said just try it out. Try what out? “I always believed marriage is a sacred thing, you get married to someone you love, just like you do mum and dad.” I take another breath and carry on “I don’t want to marry someone who I don’t love and then live miserably for the rest of my

God, she bristled. “Then what does it become?” she said. I kept my gaze level, let the word out like a bullet from a precision trigger: “A war.” There was no drama in it. No raised voice, no flourish. Just the realignment of priorities. If her father believed I had orchestrated the attack.

I nodded in awkward confusion, "I will." "Do you love Andrew?" "What?"

he says. “I know,” I say. He opens his mouth. Closes it. The war I have been watching in his eyes for weeks is right there, very close to the surface, and for one long moment I think: this is it. This is when he says the thing. This is when the careful controlled Adrian Knight who trusts contracts more than feelings finally decides that some things are worth more than professional language. Then he picks up his pen. And something in my chest does something complicated. He signs his copy. Slides it across the desk.

It had only been two nights, but already the place felt less like a hideout and more like a slow, sprawling trap. His phone had two bars, barely. Still, when it rang, he answered before the second buzz. Harlow. “Took you long enough.” Her voice cut sharp. “Took you long enough to almost ruin your life.” “I thought we were past that.” “We’re not past anything, Riven. Your dick is still trending.” He leaned back against the wooden post, lips tugging into a smirk. “So it’s true what they say. Bad press is still press.” “This isn’t press. It’s war.”

As the doors closed, the last image I had was Maia sobbing against Warren’s marble chest while he, over the top of her head, kept his eyes locked onto mine. That look didn’t belong to a man who had given up. It was the look of someone who had just declared that the personal war was only beginning—all in the name of love.

And in that moment, he knew: Love wasn’t enough anymore. It was a war.

"Do you hate him for what he did to you?" Ike paused as he considered the question. He had been terribly lonely waiting for Baja or Fenton or Shay to visit him, but he didn't hate the Dagerstanteen. "I don't hate Baja or you. I'm not even sad over the life I've lived. I am saying that love caused a war. Many Dagerstanteens have died because of what Baja chose to do. Love doesn't bring clear-headed thinking and planning for everyone involved. Love is selfish and wild."

Because love had become the weapon. And the war had truly begun.