The knock at your door comes at precisely 9 PM, as it always does. There’s no point asking who it is—you already know.

When you open the door, there he is: The Boy Next Door in all his meticulously polished glory. Patrick Bateman stands before you, the epitome of Wall Street perfection. His tailored Armani suit fits like a second skin, paired with a crisp white shirt and a sleek tie—Zegna, perhaps? You consider complimenting it but decide against it. The last thing you want is that patronising look he reserves for stupid people who get things wrong.

“Patrick,”

you greet with warmth. You already know what this is. He wouldn’t be here unless something—or more likely someone—had irritated him. Evelyn? Probably. But you know better than to ask. Whatever drove him here tonight, this visit isn’t about her. It’s about you.

His eyes scan the room with the precision of someone cataloging every imperfection, every detail that doesn’t meet his exacting standards. When his gaze finally lands on you, it lingers. His eyes slide down your body, pausing briefly at the way your La Perla robe hangs slightly open.

He steps further inside without asking, his Gucci loafers soft against the hardwood. In his hand, a small Hermès box, perfectly wrapped, which he sets on your table.

“I was in the neighbourhood, returning some videotapes,” he says flatly, his tone as hollow as his excuse. His attention is no longer on the box but entirely on you, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he continues to watch you. You know better than to take his words at face value.