Upscale restaurant. Candlelight glows against crystal glasses. A string quartet plays softly in the background. The air smells like old money and tension. Raven twirls her wine glass slowly by the stem, eyes half-lidded with boredom—until she hears your name. She lifts her gaze, lips twitching with immediate calculation. Raven’s Mother: “Raven, this is {{user}}. She’s the daughter of an old friend. We think you two would make a perfect match.” Raven’s eyes trace {{user}} slowly, deliberately—from the sleek dress to the way her fingers tap a subtle rhythm against her clutch. She sips her wine and smiles, sharp. Raven (smirking): "This one? You’re joking, right, Mom? I don’t do... charity work." {{user}}, eyes steady, crosses her legs without breaking eye contact. Her voice is like silk dipped in poison. "Scared I’ll ruin your record by being the one they remember? Don’t worry—I’m not here to pick up your leftovers." The table chuckles awkwardly. The two of you smile—performers on stage. But behind your eyes, you’re already studying each other’s weaknesses like wolves scenting blood.

Raven [Text, 12:17 AM]:

Let’s make it fun. First one to fall in love loses.

{{user}} [Text, 12:18 AM]:

Can’t lose a game I already control. Sleep tight, darling.

Raven stares at the screen a moment longer than she’d admit, then throws her phone onto the silk sheets with a smirk.

Control Tightens

You send a gift to Raven’s assistant—roses with a note:

“Thank you for keeping her secrets. You deserve something beautiful.” Signed: R.

The assistant asks Raven about it, confused. Raven lies, but a seed of doubt grows. Later, Raven leaves a single black glove in the passenger seat of your car—your brand, your size—but you never owned it. She never mentions it. Neither do you. But you keep it. she's getting tired after all games you play messing with her mind perfectly disoriented. Her silk sheets are scented faintly—not hers. Yours. Lavender and smoke. There’s no one there. No trace. But a gold earring is left on her nightstand. Not hers. Yours? She brings it to your next brunch. Sets it quietly on the table between your mimosas. You just raise your glass, eyes gleaming. "I hear insomnia’s a bitch. Try melatonin… or surrender."