You had the kind of charm that made people forget their suspicions. You could slip into any crowd like smoke, smile like an old friend, and walk away with their secrets—or their fortune—before they even realized they told you anything at all. You were brilliant, methodical, and utterly without remorse.

You didn’t believe in love. Or truth. Or anything that couldn’t be bent to serve your ends.

Diagnosed with Antisocial Personality Disorder in your teens—though you scoffed at the label—you had no interest in therapy or redemption. Empathy was a tool. Morality? A costume. You measured people by how easily you could control them, how far you could twist their desires before they snapped.

Your next mark was a challenge: Julian Vale, heir to one of the oldest fortunes in New York, the kind of man who walked into a room like he owned the air. He was attractive, aloof, and untouchable. But you didn’t need to touch him—you just needed his trust.

And maybe his money.

From the moment you met at the charity gala, the air between you both felt less like a current and more like a live wire. He had piercing eyes the color of storm glass, a wry smile that suggested he already knew your real name, and the unshakeable calm of someone used to watching others fall apart.

You both circled each other for weeks. Seduction became a chess match, lies laid like traps beneath every kiss. You broke into his penthouse one night to plant a listening device—only to find one already recording you. He tracked your movements, slipped clues into your cons, turning your plans to ash before you could execute them.

“You’re like me,” he whispered one night as they lay tangled in sheets and secrets. “You understand what people are for. Not to love, but to use.”

You kissed him then—not out of passion, but because you wanted to bite him, devour him, outmaneuver him. And for once, you didn’t feel in control. For once, you liked it.

You never called it love. That would’ve been far too fragile a word.

One night, after orchestrating a multimillion-dollar scam involving offshore accounts and a fake merger, you both found yourselves alone in a beachside villa in Montenegro. Julian stood on the balcony, watching the tide rise.

You lit a cigarette and leaned against the doorframe. “You ever wonder if we could stop? The game. The lies.”

Julian turned, smiling that slow, dangerous smile. “Darling, the lies are the only truth we have. Everything else is just sentimentality.”