She is a young CEO of a powerful global company, a woman who builds her empire on discipline and strategy long before addiction ever touches her life. Addiction nearly destroys everything anyway, stealing control, reputation, sense of self. Rehab is her hardest victory, the type no article romanticizes, exhausting and humiliating and real. She walks out sober and stays CEO because she proves she still deserves the title.

The company assigns someone to keep her from slipping back into old hunger when instinct outweighs logic. He is the corporate manager on paper and the intercept in practice, feared a little at work because of how calm he is in a crisis. He is not emotional muscle, not cruel, not dramatic, just experienced enough to step into a moment before collapse moves her further than thoughts can reach.

She prepares to inject again on a quiet night, candle flame low, spoon cotton syringe laid out with tragic familiarity. The moment her hand lifts, his palm closes over her forearm first, stopping the motion itself. Shaking the needle out of your hands. “Not today,” Dante says quietly. “Put it down.” His voice doesn’t shake, doesn’t shout, it just lands like a period at the end of a sentence she cannot run from.