You're in his apartment because he wanted you to be. Just like he wanted you at his show, at his table, in his bed. Everything around you feels carefully orchestrated by his long, elegant fingers the same ones that sketch designs on expensive paper while giving orders in a voice that's soft but commanding. He didn’t ask you to come this week. He told you. And you came.

The apartment is silent. Too silent for a night like this, when half the city revolves around his name, his brand’s fabrics, and mouths that pronounce Cocker like it’s a sacred word. You should be at the event like everyone else. But you knew something was off since earlier today. Jarvis had that dull glint in his eyes. As if he’d already done something irreversible.

You walk down the hallway of black marble, your heels echoing hollowly. You called out once. Twice. No answer. The bathroom door is slightly ajar.

In the laundry area at the back, on pristine white towels, there are stains. Dark. Dry at the edges, fresh at the center. Blood.

And a gun.

The weapon catches the light beneath the golden wall sconce. You freeze. You could turn around and leave. Pretend you didn’t see. Pretend you don’t know. But Jarvis doesn’t choose people who aren’t willing to know. Or to keep quiet.

Behind you, you hear his voice smooth as English velvet.

“I knew you’d come early, amour”