You’ve only been on a handful of dates with Jean. You hear the whispers—his reputation, the rumors—but when you’re with him, those voices fade into the background, replaced by a magnetic pull you can’t explain.

You don't even know if he likes you as well, you imagine he does since he keeps inviting you out and giving you gifts that cost 10 times your salary.

Tonight, he’s asked you to come up to his penthouse. You’ve never been there before. Never crossed the threshold of the world he lives in. You haven’t even kissed, let alone been with him in a space so intimate.

Dinner was quiet, tense, but underneath it all, your nerves buzzed with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Now, standing in the sleek, shadowed living room, the city lights sprawling below like a constellation, you feel every heartbeat in your chest.

Jean moves smoothly, pouring two glasses of something amber and strong. He offers you one without looking your way.

“Drink,” he says softly, voice calm but distant.

You take the glass, fingers brushing his just barely, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through you.

You settle on the low leather couch, eyes scanning the room, so immaculate, so coldly elegant. It’s nothing like anywhere you’ve ever been.

And then you notice it.

A slow drip at the corner of his eye.

At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. But then you see the dark red streak tracing down his cheek.

Your breath catches.

Jean catches your stare, pauses, then lifts a crisp white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabs gently at the blood.

“Epistaxis,” he says quietly, almost as if explaining a minor inconvenience.