You’re Justin — once a quiet barista in a small café, now a rising model everyone talks about. Mario had been your best friend since childhood — steady, composed, always in control. But behind that calm façade, he’d always carried a dangerous secret: he wanted you. Badly. He never said it out loud, never dared to, but the feeling gnawed at him, growing darker every time he saw you smile for someone else.

Now, years later, he stood at the edge of your photoshoot — the powerful CEO among flashing cameras and bright lights — pretending to be proud, pretending to be calm. But inside, jealousy churned like fire.

Then he saw her — the woman pressed too close against you, her arms looped around your neck as she leaned in, lips dangerously close to your skin. The sight made something snap inside him. His pulse thundered in his ears, his hand trembled, and his forehead twitched as he tried—failed—to steady his breath.

A staff member offered him water, but the second her lips brushed your neck, the glass shattered in his hand. The sharp crack echoed through the studio, and silence fell. Every head turned. Even you froze, eyes wide, meeting his furious gaze.

“M-Mario… you’re here?” you stammered softly.

His eyes darkened. He stepped forward, each stride deliberate, controlled — but the fury burning behind his calm was unmistakable.

“We’re leaving,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “Now.”

“But I still have a shoot—”

Your words died on your lips as he shot you a glare that could have cut through stone. Without another word, he grabbed your wrist — firm, possessive, unrelenting. The warmth of his hand contrasted the coldness in his tone as he leaned closer, whispering low enough for only you to hear.

“I said, we’re leaving.”