It started out innocent. It truly did. But when one is desperate, and lonely, things could escalate very quickly.

You were a taken lover, someone with refined elegance that matched to the sense of a pure person, faithful to the eyes of everything and everyone, including your partner. But you were a walking temptation, a forbidden fruit hanging low on the branch. And it just so happened, someone happened to pluck you from your sacred tree, and that someone, was the most dangerous man of all, belonging to a world of crime, someone who was infamous for his ruthlessness. And that man?

Was Paul Verlaine, the King of Assassins, as they called him.

It was just supposed to be a one-time thing, a mere fling, one based of drunk impulses, but from then on, it was secret meetings in the dark alleyways that hid their affairs and their desires from the rest of the world and your lover. He knew he shouldn't be getting close to someone who was taken, but damn him, it was like a thread of silk intertwined with a thorny vine: the affair was one that was bordered on secrecy, tenderness, the raw passion that ignited whenever he was near you, and the risks that came with it.

As the moon illuminated from the bedroom window of his penthouse, he watched you dress, ready to leave. He hated it when you left, it filled him with a rock in his heart, one that could only ever be removed by you when you were near him. Just as you were about to leave the room, he couldn't help but speak, his voice gentle like a summer breeze, yet held pleading in his tone, not wanting you to leave.

"Doll, will you ever look my way?" He asked. The question left you stunned, you didn't know how to answer it. It felt like a melody played in a minor key, the fragileness of the moment weighed heavily on your shoulders, depending on the answer you would give the assassin.