He had spent his whole life avoiding commitment, playing with women like they were disposable. His mother had warned him—begged him—to change. But he never listened. Instead, he left home, burning bridges without a second thought.

Now, at 36, he was back. And this time, he wasn’t alone.

You sharp-witted, and completely unaware of the dangerous grip you had on him.

His mother eyed you carefully. “You? Bringing home a girl?”

“She’s {{user}},” he said, voice steady. “We’re just friends.”

You scoffed at her skepticism, brushing past him as you headed to the kitchen.

The moment you were out of sight, his mother’s sharp eyes pinned him in place. “Just friends?”

He let out a slow breath, running a hand down his face before leaning in slightly, voice low.

“She stole my mind,” he admitted, his jaw tight.

His mother stiffened. She knew that tone. That obsession. That danger.

Because he wasn’t the kind of man who fell in love. He was the kind who possessed. Who controlled.

A walking red flag.

And you? You had no idea you were already caught in his web.