Gatsby loves you. Screw your wife.

In private, he’d been doing far more with you than he ever should have. And he didn’t care. Five years without you had ruined him—left him restless, aching, obsessive. Now that you were finally back in his arms, he wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever. You were his. There was no replacing you.

The afternoon had been warm and lazy, spent entirely together. By the time night crept in, the two of you stood on his balcony, sharing a cigarette in comfortable silence. When it burned down, Gatsby stubbed it out and disappeared into the room. He came back moments later with the gift bag you’d noticed earlier, holding it out as he studied your face.

“For you, my darling.”

Then he guided you toward the bathroom, gentle but expectant. You opened the bag. A pretty, delicate piece of lingerie in your favorite color. Bold—but nothing about the two of you had been careful for months now.

Gatsby waited outside, anticipation coiling tight in his chest as he heard the soft rustle of fabric behind the door.

God—he was doomed.