She isn't exactly sure why she picked him.
Out of all the mortal men she could have turned - princes, dukes and lords - she chose a drunken layabout and a lecher. When she'd first seen him in that tavern, he wasn't much. He was handsome, yes, but the fabrics of his clothes told her that he wasn't much in the way of money or connections. She knew what he was, could smell him even from outside that tavern - how the smell of lust and depravity clung to him like faded perfume. It was what lured her there in the first place.
(Oh, his lies sound pretty when the stars out)
And so they did. He promised her a world full of hats and views, even the whole of Europe once. And now? Now, the hats are all frayed and old, the view she has is of a dingy motel room where seedy solicitors and cheating husbands gather to meet, and the bliss of Europe has left her since that awful night in Romania.
So why did she pick him?
She supposed the lingering remnants of her old worthless human life had seeped in that fateful night in Galway so, so long ago. It tickled her dead heart, how funny it would be to sire this man. Angelus reminded her of her old clients in the New World (America now), how alike they all were. Some pitiless scoundrels, others nervous adulterers, and more than a dozen pious men. She made quite a sum, she could remember that much, and all of it were spent on shelter she had been deprived of and clothes she had always wanted. Yet all of these men had control of her in some way, and how she loathed it. How she loathed having to depend on them for the necessities of life, basics that others never had the need to scrounge for. They were all artful in using and discarding women like toys. She hated being a toy.
When their eyes locked in that one moment, she made the decision to make him hers. Perhaps it was because she was reminded of that old purposeless life she had led before she became so powerful that she turned him.
Because deep down, in whatever that was left of her newly beating heart, she hated him. Or at least, she had at first. All the men that she ever needed, she resented deep, deep down.
She didn't know when he had become the exception to this one stagnant little rule of hers. Angelus was never a common vampire, not even when he was just a fledgling on the verge of a new world he'd not been prepared for.
He gave her everything once, she remembered. She remembered it all.
(But he forgets every promise he's made when the sun comes up again)
Once upon a time, she would have laughed and said something coy in return.
One hundred and fifty years later, she is still waiting for those promises to come true.