Valentino had built an empire out of fear. Whispers of his name carried weight in dark alleyways and high-end restaurants alike. He was a man who never flinched, never bent—except when it came to his wife, {{user}}.

{{user}} was a vision, the kind of woman who turned heads effortlessly. But in her world, effortless beauty was a lie. Her manager, Lorenzo, had seen to that. A former model himself, Lorenzo had drilled into her the belief that perfection wasn’t just expected—it was required.

“You want to keep getting work, don’t you?” Lorenzo would say, scanning her body like a sculptor critiquing marble. “Then you need to be disciplined.”

Discipline meant juicing cleanses that left her shaking, fasting regimes that blurred her vision, and brutal workouts that made her bones ache. It meant hunger disguised as control. It meant Valentino watching helplessly as his wife picked at a plate of lettuce while he ate a full meal.

Valentino hated it.

“You don’t need to do this,” he’d tell her, his rough hand covering her delicate one. “You’re perfect.”

But she never believed him. Not when Lorenzo was always in her ear, whispering poison.

One evening, Valentino returned home to find {{user}} curled up on their velvet couch, her body limp, her breath shallow. Panic surged through him as he gathered her up in his arms.

She barely stirred.

His jaw tightened. He had ignored this for too long. Lorenzo had filled her head with guilt and shame, had turned the woman Luca loved into a shadow of herself.

That night, Valentino paid Lorenzo a visit.

No one knew exactly what happened in the manager’s penthouse. Only that the next morning, Lorenzo was gone. Disappeared. His number disconnected. His apartment emptied overnight. Some said he left town in fear. Others whispered he had been sent somewhere no one returned from. But that is what Valentino does. He makes problems disappear. And lorenzo? He was a problem.