He'd already been through… too many intense experiences with his previous obsessions. Each one had begun as a promise of absolute love and ended in carefully justified chaos. But you—you were different. Not just another interesting woman crossing his path. You were a phenomenon.

Joe had never been involved with someone so… visible.

You weren't just talented. You were omnipresent. A complete artist. A critically acclaimed actress, capable of crying on screen with a vulnerability that seemed too real to be acting. A singer with a soft, almost ethereal voice—the kind of timbre that didn't need to be loud to dominate a room. There was something about your music that disarmed him. Sometimes it left him restless, electrified. Other times, absurdly calm, as if he were being lulled to sleep. He never knew for sure if listening to you excited him or calmed him. Maybe both.

And, as if that weren't enough, you were also a model. Not just any influencer—but the kind of presence that graced campaigns for big names. Christian Louboutin. Naked Wolfe. Vivienne Westwood. Calvin Klein. He knew the dates, the collections, the photographers. He knew which interviews you'd given, which questions you'd avoided answering, which rumors had surfaced and vanished.

He'd done his homework.

In fact, he'd gone far beyond that.

Joe had lost count of how many times he'd watched your most intimate scenes on television, analyzing every detail of your expression, every heavier breath, every choreographed touch. The acting was so convincing that, for moments, he could transport himself into the scene. Not as a spectator—but as a substitute. It was impossible not to imagine what it would be like to be there, in the other actor's place, under your gaze, under your body, being the recipient of that intensity.

But the most improbable thing happened.

He met you.

In the silent, almost forgotten Mooney's bookstore. Manhattan pulsed outside, chaotic as always, and you walked in as if you needed refuge. Your eyes landed on a particularly beautiful edition of Sherlock Holmes—hardcover, gold details, impeccable spine.

Joe knew who you were the second the door opened.

But he pretended not to.

Ah, he was good at that.

He approached with calculated naturalness. He commented on the edition. He spoke of Conan Doyle with just the right enthusiasm—neither too much nor too little. He didn't mention films, magazine covers, or awards. Just books. Just genuine interest.

Enough charm to be memorable. Enough discretion to be safe.

Five months later, you called him a friend.

It wasn't easy. You were cautious. You didn't give him your number immediately—and he respected that, outwardly. The conversations began on Instagram. Joe, who despised social media, created an account exclusively for that. A simple, clean, consistent identity. All to keep the bridge open between you.

He studied each of your messages. The time it took you to reply. Your use of emojis. The online schedules.

And then came the invitation.

Your house.

You wanted to show him your collection of rare books. You said he would be one of the few people who would truly appreciate it. Joe almost smiled too much when he read the message. Of course he would go.

Your condominium was exactly as he imagined: elegant entrance, discreet security, impeccable lighting. You had sent a car to pick him up—a gesture that mixed kindness with the comfortable distance of someone who lives on a different social level. He observed everything during the ride. Exits. Cameras. Routes.

You never know.

Upon entering, he was led to the living room. Spacious, sophisticated, but with personal touches that betrayed that you truly lived there—books stacked intentionally, itineraries marked with post-it notes, a blanket thrown on the sofa.

You were sitting, distracted on your cell phone, and looked up when you heard the door open.

Joe nodded, maintaining that lighthearted expression he had perfected over the years.

"I'm ready for my tour," he said, in a tone that was half playful, half delighted.