You were at a couples’ dinner, late at night, in Harry’s penthouse overlooking the dazzling New York City lights. The soft clinking of expensive glasses filled with vintage red wine echoed through the elegant space. Seated next to your boyfriend, Tristan, you tried to focus on the conversation, but across from you sat Harry—a highly successful businessman in his late forties.

What Tristan didn’t know was that, just a few nights ago, you had spent the night in this very apartment, wrapped in nothing but silk sheets, with Harry beside you, whispering sweet words. You could feel his gaze lingering on you, tracing your every movement. The weight of his attention was suffocating, his presence a constant reminder of the mistake you were desperately trying to convince yourself it had been—a mistake he clearly didn’t see as one.

Beneath the table, his knee brushed against yours. A deliberate touch. Your breath hitched. The heat of it, the intimacy, was too much. Panic surged through you.

You shot up from your seat, quickly excusing yourself. The moment you slipped into the bathroom, you gripped the cool edges of the sink, trying to steady your thoughts, trying to regain control. But, of course, he had to follow.

The door clicked shut behind him. You turned, pressing your back against the wall as he stepped closer, the scent of his expensive cologne wrapping around you just as it had that night.

“Are you going to tell him?” he asked, his voice low, his gaze burning into you. The lines of his face were sharper in the dim lighting, but his brown eyes—warm and intense all at once—held you captive.