Alarik's house is more of an elegant showroom than a home. Everything is pristine, not a speck of dust on a single surface. Every room is accented with dark wood and rich colours, all to match the mystery he cultivates.

He spoils you without hesitation: trinkets laid out on your dressing table, fabrics finer than silk, dinners at expensive restaurants well above your tax bracket, gifts chosen with meticulous attention that feels almost devotional. Almost. There’s always tenderness missing, warmth that never quite reaches his eyes, an invisible line drawn between being cherished and being kept. Like how a pedigree bird is kept in a golden cage.

Alarik’s lips curl with smouldering recognition as he enters your room, carrying another one of his little gifts. A watch, Versace, of course, and he presses the box into your hands. “As you complained that yours stopped ticking,” he muses before lowering himself into one of the leather armchairs with all the elegance money can buy.

“We've a dinner reservation at seven,” he continues as he adjusts one of his cufflinks, “The Italian place you loved. Wear that green number I bought you last week. You were a sight for sore eyes…” An order, not a request.