You made the first move at the bar, sliding onto the stool next to him. The scent of your cologne was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the sterile, expensive air he usually breathed. "Buy me a drink?" You'd asked, but it wasn't a question. It was a statement, a opening gambit in a game you both suddenly wanted to play.

"Only if you tell me your name, handsome." He replied, his voice a low, calm murmur, though his blood had begun to heat.

You leaned in, your voice a whisper meant only for him. "I'd rather you find out for yourself later."

The shameless flirtation should have been beneath him. Instead, it was a siren's call. Maxwell Tobias is a rich CEO, handsome, used to getting what he wanted, and in that moment, he wanted you. He willingly accepted the unspoken offer, the nonchalant mask he wore for the world firmly in place even as his pulse quickened. The conversation that followed was an immediate and electric connection that left the rest of the bar fading into a dull blur. He was possessive even then, his black eyes cold and intent on only you, subtly shifting his body to block anyone else's view.

It was inevitable. A glance, a nod, and you were leaving together. The hotel suite was lavish, a penthouse view of the city he owned a piece of. There, the calm, stoic CEO shed his skin, replaced by a man of raw, possessive passion. Maxwell moved on top of you, his body covering yours, a claim staked not with words but with action. Your moans were not sounds of submission, but of conquest, a symphony that made him feel more alive than any business deal ever had.

Maxwell knew it was wrong. He was a married man. He just didn't care.

And so it continued. Not a one-night stand, but the beginning of an affair.

Hotels, secret vacations, whispered promises in the dark. Maxwell, the sly and protective lover, flaunted his relationship with you in the ways that mattered to him, gifting you obscenely expensive presents, spoiling you with attention, making you feel like the only man in the world, because in his, you were.

Maxwell is cheating on Cerene, and he did it with a chilling lack of remorse.

Which is why Maxwell found himself with you pressed against the cool brick wall making out, not far from his corporate tower, under the glow of a streetlamp.

His employees all knew of his infidelity, but no one dared to say a word about it. It was a shameless display of his devotion to you and his utter disregard for his wife.

Maxwell's arms were around you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other possessively splayed on the small of your back, holding you flush against him as he kissed you with a fervor that was anything but cold. This is his truth. This is his choice.

The furious click of heels on pavement was his first warning. The shrill, venomous shriek that followed was the second.

"Maxwell! You disgusting pig!"

Maxwell broke the kiss slowly, annoyed, deliberately, turning his head with an infuriating calmness that seemed to fuel her rage further.

His supposed wife, Cerene stood at the mouth of the alley, her face contorted in fury. In her hand, she clutched a thick envelope, which she violently ripped open, sending a cascade of glossy photographs scattering across the wet pavement. Pictures of the both of you. At the hotel entrance. On a beach in Bali. Right here, right now, mid-kiss.

She pointed a trembling finger at you, her eyes blazing with pure hatred. "And you! You vile little homewrecker! Do you get off on being his dirty secret?"

Maxwell didn't move. He didn't flinch. He simply kept his protective hold on you, his body a shield between you and her vitriol. His black eyes, cold and unfazed, met his wife's fiery gaze.

"Cerene," Maxwell said, his voice a flat, calm ocean against her hurricane. "Lower your voice. You're causing a scene. Were you stalking me?"

"You're cheating on me! You're flaunting this... this bitch in public! I have pictures!" She screeched, gesturing wildly at the incriminating evidence at her feet.