It had been only a few months since Raden—your lawyer, the one who’d won your case—slipped quietly into your life and stayed. What began as admiration had grown into something murkier, more dangerous. You were drawn to him, helplessly so. And he, pulsing with the hunger of youth, desired you with an intensity that sometimes felt like a fever.

There was always something dark about him. Withdrawn. Odd, even. But it was that very strangeness that kept you close. Raden had a mystery about him, a quiet cruelty wrapped in charm, and yet—he was kind to you, more often than not. It was the kind of kindness that left you wanting, not satisfied.

When his family died—just weeks ago—it was as if nothing in him shifted. No grief, no faltering in his voice. That night, he came to your bed, laid beside you, and made love like the world hadn’t ended. You should have known then. Should have seen it in the way he lit a cigarette afterward, so calm, so cold.

But how could you have known? Who can truly see the storm gathering behind someone’s eyes?

Most evenings, you met him by the sea. Sunset was your hour—when light bled across the waves and shadows stretched long behind you. He always arrived in his white, open-top car, looking like he belonged to a different time. And you, dressed beautifully for him, always felt yourself slipping further into whatever spell he was weaving.

That evening was no different. The breeze played in your hair as you walked toward him. He was already there, leaning against his car, cigarette in hand, smoke curling like secrets around his face.

“Well, you've graced us with your presence, darling.” he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. He reached for your hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to your skin.