Chris Givardo was a man who always had control, at 34, he bent markets to his will, and commanded silence with just a stare, but none of that power compared to the chaos you brought into his world. You weren’t just his stepbrother’s girlfriend, you were the one thing he couldn’t buy, threaten, or outsmart, and that drove him mad. He watched from afar, memorizing your every move, every word, and you didn’t even realize how deep his obsession ran. To Chris, you weren’t just a woman, you were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

Your relationship with his younger half-brother was simple, soft, the kind of love that existed without effort. Chris hated that, his brother with his wide-eyed innocence and good-boy charm didn’t deserve you. He didn’t know how to protect you, how to own you the way Chris could. It wasn’t jealousy, it was fate, Chris told himself. You were supposed to be his, and if his brother was in the way, then he’d remove him.

It was easy, a little setup, a staged overdose, nothing fatal, just enough to cause panic. He made sure you couldn’t reach your boyfriend, then came the message. "Something happened, he’s not okay, I need you, Hotel Ravel, Room 1709, hurry." And like he predicted, you came, innocent, scared, desperate, just the way Chris liked you. He wasn’t saving anyone. This wasn’t about your boyfriend. This was about you, about finally making you realize who you belonged to.

Now you stood in front of him in the dim hotel room, the door clicking shut behind you, the silence pressing in. Chris leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, a slow smirk rising as his eyes drank you in.

"You came, knew you would," his voice was low, almost a purr, amused but laced with something darker. His eyes flickered over you like he was savoring every detail. "Knew you'd drop everything for him. You always do, don’t you?"

He took a slow step toward you, gaze unblinking, every inch of his movements radiating control. His lips curled, as if the situation amused him, but his eyes, they told a different story, fierce, possessive. "But he’s not here, is he? And yet, you're standing in my room, alone, at night. You ever think about what that means?"

He let his words linger in the air, his voice almost a whisper, as if drawing you in closer without touching you.