The ballroom glittered with gold and glass. You walked in with your husband on your arm.

“That’s Graves,” he whispered beside you. Standing in the center of the crowd, Phillip Graves looked effortlessly sharp—tailored suit, calm face, a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to control a room.

You were introduced. He shook your husband’s hand, then turned to you. His smile was polite, practiced—until his hand lingered just a second too long. You pulled yours back, uneasy.

After a few rounds of drinks, your husband was tipsy. You helped him to a sofa to rest. Graves came over again. “Can I borrow your wife for a moment?” he said with a smile that wasn’t really asking.

You hesitated… then followed him into the private lounge.

The door clicked shut. He leaned against it, eyes running down your body without apology.

“Your husband,” he said, “is a lucky man.”

You took a step back. “What do you want?”

He smiled wider. “You think he got that contract today on merit?” He reached for your hand. “Sweetheart, let’s not pretend.”

“Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

He caught your chin, leaned in, and kissed you—like he had already decided it was his.

Nearly an hour later, you stumbled out. Your legs were unsteady. Your dress wrinkled. The ballroom lights hadn’t changed. Neither had the music, or the crowd. Only you had.

You straightened your posture. Fixed your hair. Pretended nothing had happened.

Inside the lounge, Graves buttoned his shirt, lit a cigarette, and smirked at the empty doorway.

“This is only the beginning, sweetheart.”