Spanish Playboy (Part 1)

 

NYU Stern was basically a playground for rich assholes born with platinum spoons up their asses. Situated right in the middle of Manhattan, the whole glass-and-steel building was packed wall-to-wall with foreign diplomats’ kids, wall street nepotism babies, and international oligarch royalty. The vibe didn’t feel like college; it felt like a heavily air-conditioned, absurdly expensive club where the underground parking garage looked less like campus parking and more like an exotic hypercar showroom.

And right in the dead-center of this whole circus sat one guy: Pablo Gavira Páez. Everyone called him Gavi.

Gavi was straight-up the king of Stern. As the twenty-one-year-old son of Gerard Páez—the Spanish Ambassador to the UN—he walked around Washington Square Park like he owned the place, completely immune to NYPD bullshit or the Dean’s office. NYU didn’t just let him get away with murder; they treated him like a fragile, priceless artifact.

The perks were utterly insane. He had a reserved spot right outside the main entrance on West 4th Street with his initials painted on it so he didn't have to waste time finding parking for his matte-black Porsche 911 GT3. He had total access to the VIP faculty lounge, which he used exclusively to hit his vape, stretch his legs out on five-thousand-dollar leather couches, and eat catered food.

Attendance? Absolute joke. Grading? Even worse. Most of the professors at Stern were busy kissing his ass trying to get close to his dad’s political connections. If a regular student turned in a corporate finance paper five minutes late, they got hit with an immediate F. When Gavi showed up three weeks late with a half-assed notebook and a stupidly hot smirk, he’d throw out some vague excuse in his heavy Madrid accent, and the professors would practically apologize for breathing his air before handing him an A. His daily routine was literally just going to the gym, getting totally smashed on high-end tequila at exclusive Meatpacking District spots until four in the morning, and swapping out girls like chew toys. Yet somehow, his GPA stayed untouched. It was infuriating.

Gavi had been living in NYC since he was twelve because of his dad's diplomatic moves. His English was fluent as fuck, but he deliberately kept his thick, silky Spanish accent because American girls went completely feral for it. To Gavi, American women were an endless buffet. But the concept of loyalty or sticking to one girl? Literally did not compute in his head.

Physically, the guy was a total bastard because of how insanely hot he was. Six-foot-one, broad-ass shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a tapered waist. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, framed by thick dark brows and a messy mop of wavy brown hair that somehow always looked effortlessly perfect. His arms were thick with hard muscle from heavy lifting. Unsurprisingly, he was also the star captain of NYU’s soccer team, fresh off winning a regional championship. Add an Amex Black card with no limit to the mix, and Gavi was the ultimate dream guy—and a walking, breathing nuclear red flag.

Behind all the hype, Gavi was a massive asshole with a dark, twisted secret: he was actively double-dipping, playing two completely separate girls at the exact same time.

Girlfriend number one was Lauren. Lauren was a brilliant, hard-working girl from the Midwest living in New York on a full scholarship. To the rich snobs at Stern, Lauren was practically invisible—a low-income charity case to make the campus look good for diversity metrics. Because of the massive social gap, Gavi explicitly told Lauren to keep their relationship entirely secret. No social media tags, no public hand-holding, no PDA around campus. Sweet, naive Lauren totally bought it, thinking Gavi was just trying to keep his private life safe from the media.

The actual truth was way more fucked up. Gavi kept Lauren hidden because he had a second girlfriend: a gorgeous, insanely wild model named Ana Silva da Costa. Ana was a Portuguese stunner—tall, wildly voluptuous, with razor-sharp cheekbones, bronze skin, and a body so thick and curvy it sent Gavi’s hormones into a hyper-boil every single time she stepped into the room.

How did Gavi pull off manipulating both of them? Total villain tactics. He told both Lauren and Ana that he wasn't officially allowed to go public with anyone. He pulled out his classic line: "Mi amor, I can’t be seen dating anyone right now. My dad’s diplomatic status at the UN is insanely sensitive, and the press watches every move I make."

It was complete bullshitting. Just a calculated move to get maximum perks from two totally different girls. He used Lauren for warm comfort, emotional support, and her cute, gentle sweet side whenever he wanted to relax. He used Ana to completely wreck his brain in bed and to parade her around like a trophy at high-end galas. Gavi literally thought he was a strategic genius, laughing to himself about how easy it was to fool two absolute tens without getting caught.

But karma is a petty bitch, and a dirty secret always comes back to bite you in the ass. This is the story of how a spoiled Spanish playboy finally got hit with reality and got the absolute scariest, most painful wake-up call of his life.

That morning, Gavi’s massive penthouse suite at the top of a glass tower in Hudson Yards was fucking hot. The central air was set to a freezing 60 degrees, but the sheer sexual tension in the bedroom kept the air sticky as hell.

Unlike Lauren, who was low-key shy—the kind of innocent girl who needed cute compliments, soft kisses, and like an hour of sweet foreplay before doing anything—Ana Silva da Costa was an absolute monster in bed. As a model who spent her time in the wild nightlife of New York and Europe, Ana knew exactly how to handle her spoiled Spanish boy.

Gavi felt like the luckiest motherfucker alive. He had two completely different flavors of getting laid lined up every week: the soft, sweet, super romantic vibe from Lauren, and the aggressive, loud, dirty-as-fuck energy from Ana. Both kept his dick ridiculously happy.

Gavi was already half-dressed after their brutal first round on the sheets. He threw on a bright electric-blue polo shirt that stretched tight across his chest and squeezed his biceps, leaving his fitted black designer jeans unbuttoned at the top.

Smirking, Gavi strutted across the hardwood floor over to Ana, who was chilling on the edge of the king-sized bed wearing nothing but an open silk robe. Stepping up behind her, Gavi wrapped his thick arms around her waist, burying his face in her neck and whispering right against her skin.

"Gonna miss you today, chica..." Gavi purred, turning up his Spanish accent on purpose because he knew it sounded hot. "You look so fucking good... Madre mía, you’re driving me crazy."

Ana let out a quiet, raspy laugh, leaning back against his chest to kiss up his jawline. Her long fingernails slid down his stomach, dipping straight below his waistline to grab him right through his black jeans.

"You like when I drive you crazy, huh?" Ana teased, her deep Portuguese voice dropping to a dirty whisper. She gave his cock a slow, heavy squeeze through the denim. "You like how dirty I get for you, Gavi?"

That single touch worked instantly. Within two seconds, Gavi’s dick throbbed hard against the fabric, rising straight up like it was ready for round two.

Gavi’s eyes narrowed, totally horned up. Throwing his head back with a cocky grin, he didn't waste a second. He grabbed Ana by the hips, hoisted her straight up, and carried her across the room over to the massive black-granite island in the kitchen. He dumped her right onto the cold counter, yanked her silk robe off her shoulders, and shoved his body straight between her bare thighs.

"Ahhh, fuck... you are so fucking hot, Ana... joder," Gavi groaned, staring dirty at her lips. "Suck my dick... por favor. I’m literally gonna burst right now."

Gavi couldn't even think straight. His brain was totally fried with the thought of getting a quick, dirty blowjob right on the counter before they had to get out of the apartment.

Ana just smirked, tilting her head with a weird, unreadable look in her eyes. She sat up straight on the granite island, bringing her legs around him.

Gavi grabbed the zipper of his jeans, yanking it down fast. He reached inside, pulling out his rock-hard, heavily throbbing dick into the cool air of the room.

Ana—who, under her hot model exterior, was low-key insane, insanely possessive, and zero percent to be fucked with—slowly leaned her face in. Her red lips parted, looking like she was about to drop down and give him the best head of his life. But instead of wrapping her warm mouth around it, Ana snapped forward and clamped her sharp front teeth directly onto the sensitive head of Gavi’s cock.

It wasn't a full-force bite meant to tear flesh, but the sudden, sharp pressure of actual human teeth digging into the head of his dick felt like getting stabbed with a fucking high-voltage needle.

"ANAAAAA!!!! DON'T BITE MY DICK, YOU CRAZY FUCKING BITCH! ¡AY, MI POLLA! AAAAAARRGH!"

Gavi let out a scream so high-pitched and hysterical it sounded like a dying bird. The six-foot-one muscular captain shot backward two steps, grabbing his crotch with both hands like he’d just been shot point-blank. He doubled over, squeezing his eyes shut while his handsome face twisted into the ugliest, most agonizing grimace imaginable.

Ana literally collapsed laughing. She leaned back against the kitchen cabinets, clutching her stomach and dying of laughter with zero regret.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry, babe! I was just fucking with you!" Ana wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. "It’s just so huge, Gavi! I couldn't help it, I wanted a bite!"

Gavi was still gasping for air, frantically massaging his crotch through his hands. "Are you out of your fucking mind?! That’s not a fucking snack, Ana! ¡Por Dios! That hurt so fucking bad!"

Suddenly, Ana stopped laughing. The funny vibe vanished from her face in a millisecond. Her eyes went dead, icy, and cold, locking onto Gavi with a terrifying look.

"Just remember one thing, Gavi..." Ana said, her voice dropping to a quiet, deadly tone as she leaned closer. "If you ever fucking cheat on me... if I ever find out you have another bitch behind my back... I will chop this entire cock off."

She paused, letting him soak in the terror.

"I won't just cut it," she whispered, her eyes turning pitch black. "I’ll chop it into tiny little pieces until there’s nothing left to suck. Got it?"

To make sure he understood, Ana held her hand up in the air and made a sharp, snapping scissor gesture right in front of Gavi’s face with two fingers. Snip. Snip.

Gavi stared at her fingers, his stomach dropping straight to the floor. A cold sweat instantly broke out over his forehead. Down below, his poor, traumatized cock—which was literally rock hard five seconds ago—instantaneously shriveled up, retreated, and went completely limp from the massive psychological trauma.

Gavi could only give a series of fast, terrified nods, his face looking pale as a ghost.

"Y-yeah... yeah, I fucking got it..." Gavi stammered out, his voice cracking. He frantically stuffed his soft, humiliated dick back into his underwear and yanked his zipper up so fast he almost caught his own skin in it. "Fuck. I’m completely out of the mood now. Jesus Christ, it feels like it’s bleeding."

Gavi wiped his sweaty face, trying to salvage whatever microscopic piece of his pride was left after getting completely terrified by a girl in a silk robe.

"I gotta go get ready for class," Gavi muttered, trying to sound annoyed to mask the fact that his heart was beating out of his chest. "Pack your shit. Like we planned, I’m dropping you at Penn Station in twenty minutes for your shuttle. You have that shoot in Philly today, right? Let's move."

Ana gave him a sweet, innocent smile, hopped off the counter, and patted Gavi’s pale cheek affectionately like nothing happened before strutting into the bathroom.

Left alone in the kitchen, Gavi put both hands over his chest, closed his eyes, and prayed to God that his dick wasn't permanently broken for life.

...

The late afternoon sun was hitting Washington Square Park in that crisp, golden Manhattan way that made everything look like a scene from an indie movie. But Pablo Gavira Páez couldn’t enjoy the view for shit. He was out on the green lawn, still wearing the exact same tight electric-blue polo shirt and dark blue designer jeans from this morning. His muscles were popping under the tight blue fabric, looking like a total fitness ad, but every single movement below his waist was pure, unadulterated agony.

Gavi was trying to act natural by juggling a slick Adidas soccer ball. Usually, his footwork was flawless— smooth, flashy, effortlessly cool. He could keep a ball in the air for an hour without breathing hard, popping it from his left foot to his right, catching it on his chest, balancing it on the back of his neck, doing fancy around-the-world tricks to make every girl walking past stop and stare.

Not today. Today, his footwork looked like a freshly birthed giraffe trying to walk on ice.

Every time he flexed his quads to pop the ball upward, a sharp, white-hot jab of pain shot straight from his bruised groin up into his lower stomach. He flicked the ball up with his right boot. Pop. Pain. He caught it on his thigh. Bump. More pain.

"Fuck..." Gavi muttered under his breath, wincing as he Barely controlled the bounce. "Fuck my fucking life."

A few feet away, sitting cross-legged on a red plaid blanket spread out over the grass, was Lauren.

She looked so fucking cute it was almost annoying. Lauren had her thick study glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose, her laptop resting on her lap, and highlighters scattered all over the blanket. She was wearing a simple, breezy summer skirt and a fitted white top, her hair tied back in a messy knot. She was the polar opposite of Ana. No heavy makeup, no crazy designer gear, no psycho energy. Just pure, wholesome, gorgeous energy.

Lauren tapped a key on her laptop, paused, and then raised her eyes to watch Gavi struggle with the ball. She watched him take three awkward, stiff-legged steps to recover a bad touch, moving like his hips were completely glued together.

She squinted. "Gavi?"

Gavi caught the ball on his foot, killed the bounce, and tried to snap into his signature panty-dropping smirk, leaning his weight onto one leg. "Yeah, mi amor? You taking a break to admire the view?"

Lauren didn't smile. She pulled her glasses down the bridge of her nose and stared straight at his legs. "Why are you walking like you just got off a horse? Or like you have a giant broomstick shoved straight up your ass?"

Gavi’s heart skipped a panic beat. The memory of Ana’s sharp front teeth sinking into the head of his dick flashed through his mind, making his stomach turn inside out.

"What? No, I’m fine," Gavi lied instantly, tossing the ball up with his hands and catching it. "I’m just... stretching. Warming up the hips for tomorrow's practice, you know?"

"Stretching?" Lauren raised an eyebrow, totally unimpressed by the bullshit. "Gavi, you look like you’re trying to walk while holding a twenty-dollar bill between your buttcheeks. Did you get kicked in the balls during practice or something?"

Gavi winced hard. If only it were just a kick. A kick was simple. A kick didn't involve a psycho Portuguese model threatening to turn his manhood into pizza toppings.

"No, I didn't get kicked in the balls," Gavi snapped defensive, his Spanish accent slipping out thick and sharp. "I’m an elite athlete, Lauren. Nobody kicks me in the balls. I have incredible reflexes. I just... pulled a groin muscle, okay? Heavy leg day at the gym. Mind your own business and finish your paper."

Lauren chuckled softly, shaking her head. She closed her laptop, set it carefully on the grass, and stretched her arms over her head. "Alright, Mr. Elite Athlete. Calm down. I was just asking."

She leaned back on her hands, watching him pop the ball back into the air with another painful flick of his ankle.

"So," Lauren started, her tone casual, "I was thinking about something today. I saw a flyer by the student center. The NYU women’s club soccer team is holding walk-on tryouts this Friday."

Gavi froze mid-juggle. The ball dropped onto the grass and rolled away. He turned his head slowly, looking at her like she’d just said she was joining the circus.

"Wait, what?" Gavi asked, a stupid, incredulous laugh bursting out of his chest. "You? Joining the female soccer team?"

"Yeah," Lauren said, totally unfazed. "I love soccer. I played varsity all four years in high school back home, and honestly, I miss it. I miss running, playing on a team, having that competitive outlet. So I’m thinking about trying out."

Gavi didn't just laugh; he exploded into a full-blown, obnoxious guffaw. He put a hand on his stomach, throwing his head back, his voice echoing over the quiet park lawn.

"Oh my god, Lauren, stop. Please, don't make me laugh," Gavi mocked, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "You? Play soccer? Por favor, chica, it’s not for you."

Lauren’s eyes narrowed. The sweet, passive tone instantly vanished. "Excuse me? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means it’s cute, but come on," Gavi snorted, walking stilted over to the ball and tapping it with his sneaker. "Women’s soccer is... well, it’s not real soccer, is it? It’s like a mini-game. It’s cute to watch, like a little high school gym class."

"Are you fucking serious right now?" Lauren asked, her jaw practically hitting the plaid blanket. "Did you actually just say that out loud?"

"I’m just speaking biology and facts, babe," Gavi said, waving a dismissive hand as he leaned heavily into his asshole persona. He loved feeling superior, especially when it came to sports. "Men and women are built totally different. Soccer is a brutal, hyper-physical, high-intensity contact sport. Men have the testosterone, the bone density, the raw muscle power, the speed. When we play, it’s war. When women play, it’s... well, it’s a nice little jog in short shorts. You’d get snapped in half out there in five minutes, Lauren. Stick to your books. Leave the actual athletic shit to guys like me."

Lauren stared at him for three full seconds. The utter arrogance radiating off his handsome, stupid face was staggering.

Slowly, without saying a single word, Lauren stood up from the blanket. She kicked off her canvas sneakers, standing barefoot in the grass, wearing her breezy floral skirt.

"Repeat that," Lauren said, her voice dropping to a dangerously calm level.

Gavi smirked, rolling his shoulders back, pushing his muscular chest out under his electric-blue polo. "I said, women don't have the physicality for real soccer. It’s just basic science, babe. Don't get emotional about it."

"Basic science, huh?" Lauren murmured.

Before Gavi could even react, Lauren moved. She darted forward like a striking snake. Her bare right foot shot out, hooking around Gavi’s front leg, tapping the ball right out from between his sneakers.

"Hey—!" Gavi stumbled, caught off guard.

Lauren dragged the ball back with the sole of her foot, popped it up into the air with a quick flick of her toes, and started juggling it effortlessly. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Her shoulder remained relaxed, her eye locked on the leather sphere as she bounced it off her right foot, her left knee, her chest, and back down to her foot without breaking a single beat of sweat.

Gavi’s jaw dropped. The sight of his petite, soft, academic girlfriend casually pulling off a smooth juggle string in a summer skirt was a glitch in his brain matrix.

"Look at that," Lauren taunted, giving him a cold, cocky smile as she kept the ball airborne. "Look at my poor female biology, Gavi. It’s so weak. How am I even keeping the ball up without testosterone? It’s a miracle."

Gavi’s Spanish pride instantly flamed up. The arrogant playboy couldn't take a single second of being shown up, especially not in front of a park full of NYU students.

"Lucky touch," Gavi sneered, stepping forward into a defensive stance, his legs spread slightly. "Give me the ball back, Lauren. Stop playing around."

"Come take it from me, then," Lauren dared him, dropping the ball to the grass and trapping it under her bare foot. "Come on, Mr. Stern Captain. Show me that crazy bone density."

"Oh, you asked for it," Gavi muttered.

He lunged forward to press her, intending to just body-check her gently and swipe the ball away like taking candy from a baby. But the moment he put weight on his right leg to pivot, the dull, throbbing ache in his groin exploded back to life. His bruised cock twitched under his jeans, sending a sharp spasm through his pelvis.

Gavi winced, hesitating for a fraction of a second to protect his injured balls.

That micro-second was all Lauren needed.

As Gavi closed in, spreading his legs to block her angle, Lauren didn't panic. She didn't retreat. She stepped right into his space. With a lightning-fast motion, she rolled the ball with her right sole, dragged it behind her left heel, and snapped it straight forward— right through Gavi’s wide-open legs.

Panna. A clean, brutal, textbook nutmeg.

The ball glided smoothly right between Gavi’s knees.

Gavi’s brain went completely blank. The ultimate humiliation in soccer— get nutmegged, having the ball pushed between your open legs by an opponent— had just happened to him. By his own girlfriend. In a skirt. Barefoot. In the middle of Washington Square Park.

"OH!" a guy sitting on a bench twenty feet away shouted, letting out a wild laugh. "She just dirtied you, bro!"

Gavi’s face flushed bright, violent crimson. The embarrassment burned hotter than jet fuel. "Fuck!" he yelled, spinning around stiffly to chase after the ball.

"Where are you going, Gavi?" Lauren laughed out loud, sprinting past him easily, catching up to the ball before he could even turn his heavy, aching hips. "I thought you had elite speed!"

"Lauren, stop!" Gavi growled, his pride utterly shredded. He charged at her again, completely discarding his gentle approach. He wanted the ball back right fucking now.

He lunged to his right, trying to cut off her angle. Lauren chopped the ball back to the left, leaving him reaching at thin air. Gavi lunged left, but every sprint, every sudden stop sent a fresh wave of agony ripping through his groin. His injured dick felt like it was being squeezed in a vise every time his thighs rubbed together inside his tight jeans. He was sweating bullets, gasping for breath, looking like a clumsy, uncoordinated amateur while Lauren danced around him like Messi.

"Look at the physical specimen!" Lauren taunted, dribbling the ball in small, precise tight circles around him, keeping it just inches out of his reach. "Look at the elite ambassador’s son! Can’t even tackle a girl!"

"Give me the fucking ball!" Gavi snarled, his eyes wild, losing his cool completely. He made a desperate, reckless dive to kick the ball out from under her feet.

Lauren didn't even flinch. She chipped the ball softly over his outstretched boot, stepped around his flailing body, and sprinted toward two metal trash cans set up about twenty yards away on the edge of the grass— the makeshift goal post.

She controlled the falling ball on her thigh, let it hit the grass once, and then set her plant foot.

"Girls rule, asshole!" Lauren yelled out.

She wound up her right leg and put her entire body weight, hip rotation, and core strength behind a ferocious, volleyed strike.

CRACK.

It was a rocket. A pure, unadulterated laser beam of a shot that rose off the grass like a missile.

Except Lauren’s plant foot slipped slightly on the damp grass right at the moment of contact.

The ball didn't fly toward the trash cans. It veered hard to the left.

Straight. Toward. Gavi.

Gavi had just managed to push himself up off the grass, standing stiffly with his feet shoulder-width apart, his chest heaving, his mouth open to yell at her. He didn't even have time to blink, let alone react.

THWACK!

The heavy, fully inflated leather ball hit Gavi directly, squarely, perfectly in the exact center of his groin with the force of a speeding cannonball.

The impact echoed across the quiet park lawn like a gunshot.

Time literally froze.

Gavi’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Every single drop of blood drained out of his face, leaving his skin a sickly, ghostly paper-white. The air vanished from his lungs in an instant. His jaw unhinged, his mouth forming a wide, silent 'O' of utter, unthinkable agony.

The force of the strike was so violent it knocked his feet right out from under him.

Gavi didn't fall gracefully. He collapsed like a chopped oak tree, his knees buckling outward as he slammed straight onto the hard dirt, clutching his selangkangan with both hands.

"AAAAGGGGHHHH—!"

The sound that finally tore out of Gavi’s throat wasn't a man’s voice. It was a high-pitched, strangled, horrific screech that sounded like a cat being run over by a lawnmower.

The double damage was apocalyptic. The fresh, violent impact of a eighty-mile-an-hour soccer ball hitting a groin that was ALREADY severely traumatized and bitten by a psycho model hours earlier caused a physical shutdown of Gavi’s entire central nervous system.

He rolled over onto his side on the grass, curling up into a tight, pathetic fetus position. He pulled his knees all the way up to his chest, his muscular arms wrapped frantically around his crotch, his head buried in the dirt. Real, heavy, unstoppable tears burst out of his eyes, streaming down his sculpted cheeks, mixing with the dirt on his face.

"¡MADRE DE DIOS! ¡MI POLLA! ¡MIS HUEVOS! ¡AAAAAAHHHHHH!" Gavi sobbed out loud, hyperventilating so hard he was practically eating grass. "¡DIOS MÍO, ME MUERO! ¡ME MUEROOOOO!"

Lauren’s cocky smile instantly vanished. Her jaw dropped in sheer terror as she watched the proud, ultra-arrogant captain of the NYU soccer team rolling in the dirt like a dying Victorian child, weeping hysterically into the lawn.

"Gavi?!" Lauren shrieked, sprinting over to him barefoot, dropping onto her knees beside his curled-up body. "Oh my god! Gavi, I am so sorry! I slipped! I didn't mean to hit you there! Oh god, are you okay?!"

"I’M DYING!" Gavi wept out, his voice cracking into a pathetic squeak as he squeezed his eyes shut, his hands locked like iron over his crotch. "IT’S BROKEN! IT’S DETACHED! IT’S GONE, LAUREN! IT’S FUCKING GONE!"

"It’s not gone, Gavi, let me see—"

"DON'T TOUCH IT!" Gavi screamed frantically, flinching violently away from her hands like she was holding a hot iron. "DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME! IF YOU TOUCH IT I WILL DIE RIGHT HERE! ¡POR FAVOR!"

Lauren panicked, looking around. A small crowd of passing students was starting to gather on the paved walkway, pointing, laughing, and pulling out their phones to record the famously arrogant Pablo Gavira Páez sobbing hysterically on the ground while holding his balls.

"Gavi, get up!" Lauren whispered desperately, her face turning red from second-hand embarrassment. "People are taking videos! Stand up, please!"

"I CAN'T STAND UP!" Gavi sobbed, big, fat tears rolling down his nose into the grass. "MY LEGS ARE DEAD! MY TESTICLES ARE IN MY STOMACH, LAUREN! THEY RETREATED INTO MY THORAX!"

"Gavi, please!" Lauren grabbed his shoulders, trying to pull him up.

Gavi tried to stand. He really did. He managed to push his broad upper body up onto his hands, but the second he tried to extend his legs to get his feet under him, a shockwave of agonizing pain shot through his pelvis. His legs completely collapsed like wet noodles.

He slammed back down onto his belly.

Realizing he physically could not stand on two feet, the grand, glorious son of the Spanish Ambassador to the United Nations did the only thing his broken body would allow.

He began to crawl.

Dragging his six-foot-one muscular frame across the grass using only his elbows and forearms, Gavi commando-crawled through the park like a wounded soldier dragging himself out of No Man's Land, whimpering and crying with every single inch he pulled himself forward. His bright blue polo shirt was covered in green grass stains and brown dirt, his messy brown hair full of leaves, tears making streaks through the grime on his face.

"Gavi, stop! What are you doing?!" Lauren gasped, jogging awkwardly alongside him as he dragged himself toward the sidewalk.

Gavi paused his agonizing crawl, lifting his dirty, tear-stained face up from the grass, looking at Lauren with pure, pathetic, helpless desperation in his red-rimmed eyes.

"Lauren..." Gavi whimpered out, his voice shaking like a frightened toddler. "Walk me... walk me to the Porsche... por favor... I can’t... I can’t reach the keys..."

Lauren looked down at her gorgeous, athletic, billionaire playboy boyfriend crawling through Washington Square Park like a crushed beetle, crying for his car. She let out a long, heavy sigh, pinched the bridge of her nose, and muttered under her breath:

"I am never going out with an athlete again."’

.

.

The night after the Washington Square Park disaster, Lauren was sitting on her dorm bed with a massive bag of frozen peas resting on her conscience.

Gavi had been texting her in complete radio silence for twenty-four hours, except for a single, wildly dramatic voice note sent at 3:00 AM where he was whispering, “Lauren… it’s.” She had laughed so hard she almost threw up. The guy was a massive baby. A six-foot-one muscular baby who was currently sitting in a Hudson Yards penthouse treating a bruised groin like a terminal illness.

She was just about to open her laptop to finish her microeconomics assignment when her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

It wasn't Gavi. It was an unknown number with a 212 area code.

Unknown: Hey Lauren. Don’t panic and DO NOT tell Gavi I’m texting you. Seriously, if you tell him, he’ll throw a total bitch fit.

Lauren blinked, her thumb hovering over the screen.

Lauren: Who is this?

Unknown: It’s Aurora. Gavi’s sister. I’m a freshman at Stern. We need to talk. Right now. Meet me at The Bean on 9th Street in twenty minutes. Bring your laptop or whatever, just look casual. And again—DO NOT TELL PABLO.

Lauren sat up straight, her eyebrows pulling together. Aurora. Gavi had mentioned his younger sister a couple of times, mostly complaining about how annoying she was and how she was " ruining his vibe" on campus. She was eighteen, a brand-new freshman, and apparently had a spine made of pure steel because nobody in the Páez family spoke to Gavi like that.

Curiosity instantly won. Lauren pulled on an oversized hoodie, grabbed her tote bag, and headed straight out into the cool Manhattan night air.

The coffee shop on 9th was half-empty, buzzing with low-fi beats and the ambient hum of exhausted hipsters typing away on MacBooks. Lauren pushed the door open, her eyes scanning the room until she spotted a girl sitting in a corner booth near the back.

Aurora was undeniably a Páez. She had the same sharp, ridiculous jawline, the dark brows, and the effortless Madrid elegance, but her energy was totally different. Where Gavi was loud, cocky, and dripped in obnoxious designer logos, Aurora looked cool, grounded, and fiercely intelligent. She was wearing a vintage leather jacket, a silver nose ring, and was currently sipping an iced matcha while scrolling on her phone.

But she wasn't alone.

Sitting right across from Aurora was a girl who looked like she’d stepped directly off a Vogue cover and onto a crime scene. Tall, insanely gorgeous, with razor-sharp cheekbones, golden-tan skin, and dark eyes that looked like they could burn a hole straight through concrete. She was wearing a cropped black turtleneck and high-waisted leather pants, leaning back in the booth with her arms crossed, radiating pure, dangerous, unhinged energy.

Lauren froze mid-step. The air in the coffee shop suddenly felt ten degrees colder.

Aurora caught Lauren’s eye and waved her over frantically. "Lauren! Over here! Sit down!"

Lauren walked over slowly, her hands tucked into her hoodie pocket. "Hey... Aurora?"

"Yeah, hi!" Aurora stood up briefly, giving Lauren a quick, warm hug before gesturing to the space beside her. "Sit, sit. Thanks for coming so fast."

Lauren slid into the wooden booth, her eyes instantly darting over to the breathtaking model sitting across from her. "Um... hi?"

The gorgeous girl didn't smile. She just raised one sculpted eyebrow, her dark eyes tracking Lauren’s every move.

"Lauren," Aurora started, setting her matcha down on the wooden table with a sharp clack. "This is Ana. Ana Silva da Costa."

Lauren nodded politely. "Nice to meet you, Ana. I’m—"

"I know who you are," Ana interrupted. Her voice was deep, smooth, dripping with a heavy Portuguese accent that sounded like sex and danger wrapped into one. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her long, manicured nails tapping against the wood. "You’re the scholarship girl."

Lauren blinked, feeling a sudden flare of defensiveness. "Okay... what is this? Did Gavi send you guys to prank me or something?"

"No," Aurora said, her voice dropping to a low, deadly serious tone. She reached across the table and put a hand over Lauren’s wrist. "Gavi doesn't know we’re here. Gavi is currently at home wrapping his balls in frozen steak, completely oblivious. Lauren... I called you here tonight because my brother is a lying, manipulative, toxic piece of trash."

Lauren blinked. "I mean... he’s annoying, but—"

"No, Lauren," Aurora cut in, her dark eyes flashing with absolute disgust. "You don't get it. He’s double-dipping. He’s playing both of you."

The quiet hum of the coffee shop seemed to instantly mute out. Lauren sat frozen, her brain taking three full seconds to process the words.

"What?" Lauren whispered.

"You heard her, sweetie," Ana snapped, her voice cold as ice. She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and slid it across the table toward Lauren. "Take a look. Go on."

Lauren looked down. On the screen was a lock-screen photo of Gavi—the exact same Gavi—shirtless in a high-end penthouse bedroom, wrapping his thick arms around Ana’s waist, biting her shoulder while she laughed into the camera. The timestamp on the photo was from three days ago.

Lauren felt a sudden, sickening drop in her stomach. It felt like someone had just tossed a bucket of ice water straight into her chest.

"He told me..." Lauren started, her voice cracking slightly before she caught herself. She cleared her throat, her hands clenching into fists inside her hoodie pockets. "He told me he couldn't go public with me because of his dad’s diplomatic status at the UN. He said the press was watching him."

Ana let out a loud, brutal laugh that made a guy two tables away jump. "Oh my fucking god. The UN line! Madre de Dios, he used the exact same fucking line on me!"

Ana threw her head back, her manicured nails digging into the edge of the table. "He told me, 'Ana, chica, my father’s status is so sensitive, we must keep us private for now!' The absolute audacity of this little Spanish pig!"

Lauren sat there, shock rapidly giving way to a white-hot, furious heat bubbling up in her chest. All those times Gavi had told her she was "special," all those times he’d made her hide in the back seat of his car so nobody on campus saw them, all those times he’d treated her like a dirty little secret while claiming it was for "diplomatic privacy."

It wasn't privacy. It was pure, unadulterated bullshitting.

"How long?" Lauren asked, her eyes locking onto Ana. "How long have you been seeing him?"

"Six months," Ana spat out, her Portuguese accent getting thicker with rage. "Six fucking months of letting him use his stupid accent, eating my food, acting like a king in my bed. And you?"

"Eight months," Lauren said, her jaw tightening until her teeth hurt. "Eight fucking months."

"Unbelievable," Ana muttered, shaking her head, her dark eyes flashing with absolute murder. "I swear to fucking God, I am going to kill him. I am going to take a steak knife from his fancy kitchen and chop his entire cock off. Slice it, dice it, fry it, and feed it to the pigeons in Washington Square Park."

Lauren, despite the rage burning in her throat, couldn't help the snort that escaped her nose. "Okay, first of all, that’s wildly illegal and you’d get deported. Second of all... his cock is already half-dead."

Ana paused, looking confused. "What?"

Lauren leaned in, a dark, wicked smirk finally breaking through her furious expression. "I kicked a soccer ball straight into his nuts yesterday at the park. At full speed. He rolled around in the dirt crying for twenty minutes and had to crawl on his elbows to his car."

Ana’s jaw dropped. Then, a slow, predatory grin spread across her gorgeous face. "Wait... THAT’S why he was limping yesterday?! That’s why his ball was swollen like a grapefruit when he came home?!"

"Yep," Lauren grinned, the shared malice instantly forging a bizarre, dark bond between them. "He literally wept, Ana. He cried for his mom."

Ana burst into a fit of wild, wheezing laughter, clapping her hands together. "OH MY GOD! I fucking bit him yesterday morning because he was annoying me, and then you smashed his balls with a soccer ball in the afternoon?! GOD IS REAL!"

"Wait, you BIT him?!" Lauren gasped, her eyes going wide.

"Yes!" Ana cackled, her eyes sparkling with psychotic joy. "I clamped my teeth right on the tip! He screamed like a little bitch! 'AY, MI POLLA!'"

Both girls started laughing hysterically, the shared absurdity of Gavi’s suffering bonding them in a way no normal conversation ever could.

"Okay, okay, shut up, you two," Aurora interrupted, though she had a huge, satisfied smirk on her face as she took another sip of her matcha. "As funny as his shattered manhood is, we have a bigger issue here."

Lauren wiped a tear of laughter from her eye, leaning forward. "Aurora... how did you find out about this?"

Aurora leaned her elbows on the table, her tone shifting into full tactical-feminist mode.

"Because I live with him in the city, Lauren," Aurora said, rolling her eyes hard. "I watch him operate. I saw his texts. I saw him calling you 'my sweet girl' at 2:00 PM and then texting Ana 'my wild queen' at 2:15 PM. It was disgusting. It made my skin crawl."

Aurora gestured aggressively with her hands, her silver rings catching the dim lighting.

"Look, I am a woman first, okay?" Aurora declared, her voice firm, grounded, and intensely passionate. "I am a feminist. I believe in female solidarity above all else. I don't give a fuck that Gavi is my brother. Blood ties mean NOTHING when a man is actively partaking in the systemic emotional exploitation of women!"

Ana nodded approvingly. "Tell 'em, little sis."

"I mean it!" Aurora insisted, knocking her knuckles against the table. "Men like Gavi think they can treat women like disposable commodities because society has catered to their fragile little male egos since the day they were born. He thinks because he’s rich, handsome, and has diplomatic immunity, he can just walk through life using women for emotional labor on one hand and physical gratification on the other, without ever facing a single consequence! Well, NOT ON MY WATCH. I refuse to let two brilliant, gorgeous women be collateral damage in my brother’s pathetic little patriarchy-fueled power trip."

Lauren stared at Aurora, genuinely impressed. "Damn, Aurora. That was actually a really good speech."

"I take gender studies at 9:00 AM," Aurora said proudly, taking a sip of her drink. "The point is, Gavi needs to be destroyed. Not just dump-him destroyed. I mean mentally broken, humbled, and brought to his knees."

"I still vote for chopping his dick off," Ana chimed in casually, taking a delicate sip of her espresso. "Just a small cut. A little snip-snip."

"Ana, we talked about this, no physical dismemberment," Aurora sighed. "We can't go to jail for Pablo. But... psychological warfare? Humiliation so deep it rewrites his DNA? That, we can definitely do."

"Besides," Lauren added, a vengeful glint in her eyes, "we don't need to cut his dick off. We can always just kick his balls again. Ball-kicking is legally grey, highly effective, and spiritually damaging."

Ana laughed loudly, slamming her hand on the table. "I like you, scholarship girl! You have fire!"

"Okay, wait," Aurora said, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Speaking of his balls... do you guys want to know the absolute best part about Gavi’s testicular vulnerability?"

Lauren and Ana both leaned in immediately, their heads touching over the center of the table.

"Tell us," Ana demanded.

Aurora smirked, a sinister, mischievous look washing over her face. "When Gavi was ten years old, back when we were living in Madrid... our dad got caught cheating on our mom with his personal assistant."

Ana gasped. "No way!"

"Oh, big time," Aurora chuckled evil-ly. "Mom found out, walked right into the dining room during Sunday lunch, didn't say a single word, and kicked Dad straight in the nuts with a high-heeled Italian leather boot. Dad hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, vomited on the carpet, and couldn't walk right for two weeks."

Lauren’s eyes widened. "Holy shit."

"Gavi was sitting right there at the table eating cornflakes," Aurora grinned, leaning back into the booth. "He witnessed the whole thing. The sound, the crying, the humiliation. It traumatized him for LIFE. That’s why he’s so insanely protective of his balls! That’s why he freaks out when anyone goes near them! He has literal childhood PTSD from watching our dad get his masculinity obliterated in one second flat!"

Ana burst into another wild round of psychotic laughter, clutching her throat. "ARE YOU SERIOUS?! ¡Dios mío! The little Spanish playboy is traumatized by his daddy’s crushed eggs!"

"It’s his weak spot," Lauren giggled, her mind already spinning with devious possibilities. "His literal Achilles' heel is between his legs."

"Exactly," Aurora said, a sharp, villainous smile spreading across her lips. "He’s weak. He’s arrogant, he’s spoiled, and he thinks he’s untouchable. Which is why we are going to ruin his fucking life over the next three days."

"I’m listening," Ana said, her dark eyes flashing with pure, sadistic excitement. "What’s the plan?"

Aurora pulled out a small notebook from her leather jacket, flipping it open to a page where she had scribbled three distinct section headings in dark black ink.

"I call this... Operation Spanish Omelet," Aurora announced proudly.

Lauren laughed out loud. "Spanish Omelet? Because of his crushed eggs?"

"Precisely," Aurora grinned. "It consists of three distinct phases. Three targeted revenge strikes designed to shatter his ego, expose his cheating ass, and leave him utterly broken."

Aurora pointed to the first heading in her notebook. 

Two nights after the coffee shop secret assembly, Gavi was pacing around his Hudson Yards penthouse, feeling like he was finally regaining control of his kingdom. His groin still felt like a bruised peach if he moved too fast, but the blinding, soul-crushing agony from Lauren’s rocket-shot soccer ball had finally subsided to a dull, manageable ache.

He was dressed in a tight, long-sleeved black compression shirt that clung to his broad chest and thick biceps like armor, paired with a fresh pair of dark blue designer jeans. He looked stupidly hot, and he knew it. Standing in the middle of his sleek, high-end kitchen, he popped a piece of sliced fruit into his mouth, feeling his confidence surging back.

Then the front door clicked open, and Ana Silva da Costa strutted into the apartment.

She looked like an absolute dream—and an absolute nightmare. She was wearing an oversized beige trench coat over a tiny black cropped tank and tight leggings, her dark brown hair falling over her shoulders in effortless, soft waves.

Gavi’s eyes darkened instantly. His Spanish heart did a little flip, his mind immediately resetting to horny mode.

"Hey, chica," Gavi purred, leaning against the kitchen counter, trying to look effortlessly cool while carefully keeping his feet shoulder-width apart so his thighs wouldn't rub together too hard. "You're late."

Ana didn't answer right away. She locked the door, dropped her designer handbag onto the entry table, and walked slowly toward the kitchen. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes locked straight onto his midsection.

Despite everything—despite knowing he was a lying, two-timing, manipulative little diplomatic bastard—Ana’s eyes dragged down his black compression top straight to the front of his fitted blue jeans. There was an unmistakable, heavy print pushing against the denim.

Ana felt a sudden, fleeting moment of absolute mental confusion.

God damn it, she thought to herself, feeling a wave of annoyance hit her brain. The dickmatization is so real.

It was infuriating. Gavi was a total piece of shit, but physically? The guy was a fucking work of art. And that massive, heavy dick of his was, unfortunately, one of the best things that had ever happened to her sex life. It was big, thick, heavily throbbed, and when he wasn't being an arrogant asshole, he actually knew how to use it. Looking at the heavy bulge behind his jeans made her mouth water just a tiny bit, her body remembering the intense, wild nights they had shared on his king-sized bed.

But then, right on the heels of that filthy thought, another image flashed vividly in Ana’s mind.

She imagined pulling a razor-sharp chef’s knife out of his wooden knife block. She imagined shoving him backward onto the granite counter, yanking his blue jeans down to his knees, laying his thick, stupid cock flat across the cold stone, and slicing it clean off into neat, half-inch coins like a summer sausage.

A slow, terrifying, unhinged smile spread across Ana’s face.

Still staring at his crotch with that sweet, psychotic smirk, Ana reached out to the fruit bowl on the counter. She grabbed a banana, peeled it back with slow, deliberate precision, and grabbed a small paring knife from the cutting board.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

She sliced the banana into thick, even pieces, her manicured fingers pressing down hard on the blade, making a sharp thump-thump-thump sound against the wood.

Chop.

Gavi’s eyes darted from the knife blade down to the banana, and then straight up to Ana’s smiling face. A cold, prickling wave of sweat broke out across the back of his neck. His dick instantly shrank three inches inside his jeans, his traumatized brain firing off red alert sirens.

"Uh... chica?" Gavi stammered out, his Madrid accent cracking slightly as he took a cautious half-step backward. "Hey... what... what the fuck are you thinking about right now? Why are you smiling like that at a banana?"

Ana stopped chopping. She slowly lifted her head, her dark eyes locking onto his pale face, keeping that sweet, utterly terrifying smile intact.

"Nothing, baby," Ana whispered, her voice smooth as silk. "Just thinking about... dinner prep."

She tossed the knife onto the board with a loud clack, stepped right into Gavi’s personal space, and slid her arms up over his broad shoulders.

Before Gavi could overthink the horror, Ana pulled his head down and slammed her lips onto his.

It wasn't a sweet, gentle kiss. It was aggressive, possessive, and dirty. She shoved her tongue into his mouth, tasting the sweet fruit on his breath, pulling his broad upper body tight against hers. Gavi let out a low, raspy groan, his hands instinctively dropping to her waist, squeezing her soft, curvy hips through her leggings.

All the fear vanished from Gavi’s brain in a split second. The sweet, intoxicating rush of Ana’s perfume and the feeling of her soft lips completely wiped his memory.

Ana knew exactly what she was doing. She was a master performer. She ran her hands down his black long-sleeve shirt, feeling the hard, dense muscle of his chest, before tracing her fingernails down his stomach. She pressed her pelvis directly against his jeans, grinding her hips into him in a slow, heavy circle.

"Ahhh, fuck, Ana..." Gavi groaned into her mouth, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps. "You’re driving me crazy... por favor..."

Ana pulled back just an inch, her dark eyes glittering with wicked satisfaction. She slid her hand down to cup his crotch through his jeans, giving him a firm, tantalizing squeeze that made him shudder with pure pleasure.

"You like that, Gavi?" Ana whispered raspy against his neck, biting down gently on his collarbone. "You like how good I make you feel?"

"Yes... dios mío, yes..." Gavi panted, his hands sliding up under her cropped top, feeling the smooth skin of her waist. "Come to the bedroom. Let me fuck you right now."

Ana smirked, pulling her hips back just out of his reach, playing the ultimate game of tease-and-deny.

"Mmm, maybe later, papi," Ana cooed, resting her hands on his broad chest, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Actually... I need to ask you for a tiny favor first."

Gavi blinked, his brain completely fogged up by horny confusion. "A favor? Now? Chica, I’m rock hard right now."

"I know, baby, but listen," Ana said, stroking his jawline with her thumb, turning up her sweet Portuguese charm to maximum volume. "You know that women’s self-defense and athletic apparel brand I’m modeling for this month?"

"Yeah? What about it?"

"Well... we’re shooting a promotional campaign at the NYU varsity gym tomorrow morning," Ana lied smoothly, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "It’s a specialized self-defense demonstration class for the student magazine. But the male model they hired to act as the... attacker for the photos? He called in sick with the flu."

Gavi scoffed, rolling his eyes. "So? What does that have to do with me?"

"Gavi, please!" Ana pouted, laying her head against his chest, sliding her arms around his neck again. "I told the director that my boyfriend is the strongest, most gorgeous soccer captain on campus. You're six-foot-one, built like a Greek god, and so insanely handsome. You’d be perfect for the photo shoot."

Gavi’s massive, fragile male ego instantly swelled to the size of a hot air balloon. A smug, cocky smirk broke out across his handsome face.

"Well... I mean, yeah," Gavi snorted, preening under the praise. "I am definitely built better than any random male model they’d hire. But come on, Ana. Me? In a female self-defense class? That’s kind of lame, isn't it?"

"No, baby, it’s not lame at all!" Ana insisted, running her nails up his biceps, feeling the hard muscle flex under his black shirt. "It’s just for a quick set of action photos! You don't even need to change into workout gear. You can literally just wear your usual outfit—your polo shirt, your blue jeans, whatever you want! You just stand there, look strong and intimidating, and let me pose with you for twenty minutes. Please, baby? Do it for me?"

Gavi looked down at her, weighing his options. His male pride loved the idea of flexing his physique for a professional camera crew, showing off how insanely hot and athletic he was. Plus, the thought of being officially branded as Ana’s "strong, protective boyfriend" in front of campus media tickled his manipulative little brain.

"I don't know..." Gavi hummed, acting like he was playing hard to get. "What’s in it for me?"

Ana’s dark eyes flashed with dangerous, hidden malice, but her smile remained dazzlingly warm. She reached down, grabbed his hand, and dragged his palm straight down to the center of her lace panties, pressing his hand firm against her heat.

"If you say yes right now..." Ana whispered dirty into his ear, her breath warm against his skin, "I will give you everything you want. Right here on this kitchen counter. No rules. No holding back. I’ll make you scream, Gavi."

Gavi’s brain completely melted. The raw, primal bargain hit his bloodstream like pure adrenaline.

"Fuck..." Gavi rasped out, his fingers instantly tightening against her hips, pulling her body flush against his throbbing jeans. "Fuck, okay! Okay! I’ll come! I’ll be there tomorrow morning!"

Ana let out a throat-heavy, triumphant laugh. "Good boy," she purred.

Without another word, Ana pulled her trench coat off, dropped it onto the floor, and hopped straight up onto the granite kitchen island, wrapping her long legs tightly around Gavi’s waist. She pulled his head down into another deep, reckless kiss, letting him pull her clothes off while he grunted with desperate, horny enthusiasm.

Gavi thought he was the ultimate winner. He thought he was a strategic genius, getting the absolute prize of Ana’s wild, incredible body just for agreeing to show up at a gym for twenty minutes in his cool blue polo shirt.

He had no idea that while he was burying his face in Ana’s neck, Ana was staring over his shoulder at the kitchen wall clock, her eyes dead and cold, calculating the exact hours left until sunrise.

Phase One was officially locked, loaded, and ready to detonate. The trap was set, the bait had been taken, and Pablo Gavira Páez was about to walk straight into a brutal, public, varsity-level execution.

.