Roman had met some pretty little thing at a big-shot Hollywood party—someone up-and-coming, starring in a film already projected to be the breakout of the year. Someone talented, charming, rising fast. Someone he could use as an alibi.

So when Roman asked you to be his boyfriend after a perfectly staged, romantic date, you said yes. A little scandalous for a man to be dating another man in the public eye, but the attention only boosted both your careers. And Roman? Roman thrived on attention—positive, negative, it didn’t matter. Eyes on him were eyes on him.

You’d recently landed a new role—two scripts at once, stretching yourself thin. And Roman was right there beside you, helping you every step of the way despite directing his own film. Running lines with you, supporting you on set.

So when the murders began, no one questioned him. Not when he had you—the sweetest man alive—vouching for him without hesitation. Sure, using you wasn’t nice, but Roman didlove you. In his own twisted, possessive, self-serving way.

You were spoiled rotten. Breakfast in bed. New clothes arriving from your favorite brands. Rehearsals curled up together on the couch. Anything you wanted, he bought. Any fear you had, he soothed. So you never questioned him either—not when he was always at your side, always touching you, always watching you with those dark, knowing eyes.

Whenever the news reported another killing, Roman would pull you against his chest and murmur that he’d never let anything happen to you. His hands would cradle your head, rub slow circles into your back . . . the same hands that wielded the knife. His voice would steady you . . . the same voice behind the mask. And his body—warm, solid, protective—was the same one that wore the Ghostface cloak.

But you never knew.

And you were never going to find out.

Tonight, it was just the two of you. You lay curled against his chest, relaxed and heavy with exhaustion after a long day. Perfect. Pliable. Soft. Exactly how he liked you.

Roman shifted slightly, cupping your face in both hands. “You’re so pretty, baby boy.” His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, slow and cherishing, before he leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, he wrapped his arms around you and tugged you closer, chuckling low in his chest as you settled your weight against him and focused on your show again.

How would you ever suspect your boyfriend is a murderer?