Smooth Operator

"Oh, my dear, I've never met anyone like you before. No one I've ever been with compares to you. It took me two hundred tries, but finally, I have found 'the one,' and she is you," I whisper into her hair, scanning the room behind her, looking for something better.

"I can barely breathe when you're near me," Sonia answers in a daze.

I was tall, muscular, and handsome. That always helps. I make sure that my eyes never leave her when we are together. She is certain I care for her, not her father's money. Tedious as it has been, I have proved myself repeatedly to her for the past six months.

"No. Sweetheart. I don't want to marry your father's bank account. It's you I care about."

Her parents weren't so sure about me. With her persuasion, though, they will come around. Valentine's Day was two months away. I promised her a special surprise that evening. I know she's positive it's an engagement ring. I can see the anticipation in her starry eyes.

She always trusted everyone. Her parents never gave her a reason to doubt and she took their shining example and projected it onto a cruel world, despite her father's stern warning. "You are going to be a mark, Sonia. People will befriend you for what you can buy them. Keep your eyes and ears open and be careful who you trust."

Certainly, the warning was not for me. I'm not like that. I can make my way without help, thank you very much. My alcoholic, abusive father and prescription junky mother had shaped my character with belts and welts. Her family didn't know me or what I'd learned growing up in my house.

Three weeks into our relationship, I told Sonia to toss away her birth control pills because I had finally met the mother of my future children. She practically melted into my arms that evening, giving herself to me without protection, letting her primal urges push her to heights of sensuality. Oh, the magic of telling a woman you want her to have your babies. There's just something about that lie.

She claimed that no man had ever captured her heart like I had. She said that her knees buckled when I texted her during the day. No skin off my nose. It costs nothing to send cute little emojis. The returns were well worth it.

Returning home from her parent's house one night, she cried about the blistering appraisal her father bellowed after her as she ran out the door. "You'll be sorry! He's looking for my money and using you to get it. Are you crazy? Don't you dare move in with that man!"

What did he know? He never once took the time to sit down and talk with me about my intentions, or anything else, for that matter. I convinced her that her parents were only concerned with controlling her and keeping their money close. Besides, when babies started coming along, they would soften up and accept our relationship.

Without her parents' help or permission, as if she needed it, she slowly moved her clothing and personal items into my small, one-bedroom apartment in what her parents would call, the bad side of town. Her creams and lotions slowly took over my bathroom cupboards, and more of her clothes were hanging in the closet than mine. Soon, she was officially living with me.

I expected her to prepare dinner for me when I got home at night. She did this with glee, even though she was a terrible cook. She took over all the household tasks, never quite performing to my standards. Eventually, she could be trained. But, jeez, she was as dumb as a rock-- and cry? Every time I told her what she did wrong a waterfall would start.

One month I had been particularly frustrated with the bills. To surprise me she paid them all and covered the rent without telling me. Instead of being furious with her when she told me, I was so thankful it made her cry. Her father, the brute, would never have allowed his wife to do that. He was the man of the house and took care of those things.

Well, she was not her mother. She had her own money, which she could use as she pleased and it pleased her to make her man happy. It also pleased me. I opened several new credit cards, knowing she'd cover them.

When Valentine's Day rolled around, I tried valiantly to scrape up enough money to treat her to a romantic evening at a restaurant I knew I couldn't afford. When I got home to pick her up for our date she was decked out in some frilly gown that must have cost a fortune. I wasn't about to be shown up by her. All I had was a pair of dress pants and a sweater that needed to be put down.

I took one look at her and ordered her to change clothes. "You look like a tramp. That dress is too low and it's too tight. I don't want every guy in the place screwing you in their minds. What the hell were you thinking?"

"It's a Demarte's original design. It's not slutty!" she insisted.

"I don't care if it's a Target special. Take it off and put something decent on, Jesus Christ."

Tears staining her carefully made-up face, she changed into a cotton dress that buttoned up to her neck and flowed below her knees. Pretty but not too special. She said nothing as we climbed into her car for our special night. She would have to buy me better clothes. If I played my cards right she'll suggest it herself.

I calmed myself down, opening doors and holding chairs for her, so she'd be lulled into my attempt at a romantic evening. She was eating it up until the check came. I fumbled in my pockets, unable to locate my wallet. "What did you do with my wallet?" I accused, catching her off guard.

"I didn't move your wallet," she protested.

"It was right in my pants pocket when we got ready to leave. You must have moved it. Jesus, Sonia. Leave my stuff the hell alone. You'll have to pay. I'll repay you on Friday," I said arrogantly, hoping she'd believe it was her fault.

She quietly paid the check, trying not to humiliate me further. I was so done with her. I couldn't keep up the act much longer. Her father wasn't sick. He might even outlive me. I'd put in months of planning and conniving into this woman, and if I heard her brittle, little voice one more time I might explode. Screw the money. It wasn't worth it.

When we arrived home, I said, "Put your sexiest lingerie on. I have that surprise for you now."

I could practically hear her heart skipping beats. Anticipating an engagement ring, she changed in the bathroom, wiping the smeared mascara off her face and reapplying lipstick. Wearing her favorite silky red nightie with a barely there thong, she entered the bedroom. I was sitting naked on the edge of the bed.

"Give me your hands, darling, and close your eyes."

Oh, God. This was it. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. Forgotten were the bills she'd paid; the complaints and insults from earlier in the evening. All was forgiven as she held out her hands, dreamily waiting for a glittering diamond ring to surround her finger.

Instead, a cold metal clang rang out, as a pair of steel handcuffs were slapped onto her wrists. I shoved her roughly to the floor. "You think you're better than me. Don't you?"

"What? No. No! What are you talking about?"

Picking my belt off the floor where I'd dropped it, I began slapping her with it wildly. "You and your rich family. You're all laughing at me, aren't you? They don't want you to marry me because I'm not one of them."

Every strike from the belt left painful, bloody slashes on her body as I chased her around the apartment, insulting and berating her. She screamed and begged me to stop, trying to protect her face with her hands while I laughed at her. I could see the helplessness wash over her, as she realized she was no match for my fury.

"I'll do whatever the hell I want to do, bitch. You want to marry me? Well, baby, you aren't good enough for me. Go home to Mommy and Daddy and I'll send your shit to their house. Get out. Just get the fuck out of my sight."

On her knees, cowering in the corner of the living room, surrounded by broken picture frames and upturned furniture, she begged, "What is wrong with you? Why are you doing this?"

Terrified, she ran out of the apartment in the flimsy nightgown. One week later I received a package from a fancy lawyer. Inside was a positive pregnancy test and paperwork for a paternity test.

Well, shit.