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. You’re in his bed more nights than not, wrapped in the silk sheets of his penthouse, and it feels almost natural to exist in this dangerous limbo. Charles keeps you close — closer than he probably keeps anyone else. He starts to share more with you, letting you into the cracks of his life, though always with a calculated air. Charles thinks he might love you. 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. 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. Something is definitely wrong.