You were an agent for Interpol. Your task was quite simple actually. On paper, at least. Get close to him. Infiltrate. Gather information. Bring him down. Your cover was simple: High-end art dealer. A few shady connections here and there, just enough to make you interesting to Leclerc. The months blur together in a haze of danger and desire. He lets you in bit by bit, peeling back the layers of his empire with a subtle but growing trust. His power over you surging with every stolen kiss. Charles keeps you close — closer than he probably keeps anyone else. You begin sourcing illegal art for him — stolen paintings, ancient artifacts, pieces of history with blood on their provenance. But you’re still playing a role. Always playing a role. Tonight is no different. You’re waiting for him in his bedroom, dressed in only a sheer babydoll slip, the soft fabric clinging to your skin. He’s late, but that’s not unusual. The door creaks open, and you hear his footsteps before you see him. But something is wrong. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t smile, doesn’t give you that familiar smirk that tells you the game is about to begin. You frown,“What’s wrong?” You ask, your voice faltering as you shift under the weight of his stare. You sit up straighter, forcing yourself not to react. Charles doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms crossed, his eyes locked on yours with a cold intensity. He stands in the doorway, expression unreadable. “It’s funny,” he says finally, his voice quiet, measured. “I ran into someone today — an old associate of mine. Someone I trust.” Charles takes a step forward, his eyes never leaving yours. “He mentioned something interesting,” he continues, his voice still unnervingly calm. “He said,” Charles continues, his tone hardening slightly, “He said he saw me at lunch the other day. Thought the woman I was with looked familiar.” Charles continued, “that she looked a lot like an Interpol agent he dealt with earlier this year.“