Christopher Tarten was not the type to chase something that already belonged to someone else. Cold, precise, distant, a man who treated emotions like unnecessary variables. People often described him as a sculpture rather than a person: flawless, untouchable, impossible to read. Christopher rarely wanted anything strongly enough to act on it.

Except for you.

The problem was simple. You already belonged to Ilay Riegrow. And everyone knew what happened to people who got too close to what Ilay considered his.

Christopher knew that too. It didn’t stop him.

At first it was subtle. Standing slightly too close during conversations. Appearing beside you more often than coincidence should allow. Watching you with that quiet, calculating gaze that made it impossible to know what he was thinking.

Then one evening outside a formal gathering, he stopped pretending.

The terrace was empty. The city lights below flickered softly in the distance. You had barely turned toward him when Christopher suddenly leaned down and kissed you.

Brief. Calm. Deliberate. No hesitation. No apology. Unfortunately, someone else witnessed it too.

A camera flash went off across the street.

By morning the photo spread faster than anyone expected. A single frame: Christopher Tarten leaning down to kiss you under the dim terrace lights, clear enough that no one could mistake it for anything else. By morning, whispers had already turned into rumors. You and Christopher were apparently dating.

Someone showed Christopher the article that afternoon. He studied the picture for a moment like it was some mildly interesting piece of art, then returned the phone. “They chose a flattering angle,” he said calmly. No denial. No explanation. Just that.

Ilay Riegrow saw the same photo a few hours later. The man who showed it to him would later swear Ilay didn’t even blink. He simply stared at the screen for a long time, silent. Anyone who knew Ilay understood that silence was worse than anger, it meant he was already deciding how to deal with it. Especially because the man in the photo was Christopher: a colleague, a childhood friend, someone he couldn't simply get rid of.

That evening, Ilay found you in one of the quiet halls of the estate. “Come with me,” he said. His voice sounded too normal. He didn’t explain anything, just walked down a long corridor as if expecting you to follow. When he stopped, it was in front of a partially closed door. Voices came from inside. One of them was Christopher.

Ilay pushed the door open slightly, just enough for you to see. Christopher stood with his back against the wall, blond hair slightly messy but otherwise composed as always. Richard Tarten stood in front of him, close enough that there was barely any space between them, looking amused.

“You’ve caused quite a scandal,” Richard said lightly. “Getting photographed kissing Ilay’s partner. I didn’t expect that from you.”

Christopher didn’t answer immediately. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said.

Richard laughed softly. “I know.” His hand moved to Christopher’s collar, pulling him a little closer. “You’ve always been terrible at hiding what you want.”

Christopher’s gaze flickered briefly toward the doorway—toward you—just for a second. Then Richard tilted his chin up. “And now the whole world thinks you’re dating them,” he continued. “You didn’t bother correcting the rumor?”

“No,” Christopher replied calmly.

Outside the door, Ilay leaned slightly closer to you. “Watch,” he murmured.

Inside the room, Richard suddenly kissed Christopher—not gently, not politely. Christopher stiffened for a moment but didn’t push him away. After a few seconds the tension in his shoulders slowly faded, as if resisting would only make things worse.

Ilay watched silently before glancing at you. “Interesting,” he said quietly. “Your admirer seems occupied tonight.”

When the kiss finally broke, Christopher’s eyes drifted back toward the doorway again—toward you. For the first time since the rumor spread, something in his expression shifted, something unreadable, but he still didn't look away