The club was loud enough to blur morality, gold lights sliding over silk dresses and tailored suits while strangers pretended not to be desperate for distraction. You didn’t come for pleasure. You came because silence at home had started to feel suspicious, because your husband’s late meetings were stacking up into something that smelled like betrayal, and you refused to be the only loyal person in a marriage that suddenly felt one-sided. Three men were already standing around your table, eager, entertained, mistaking your calm expression for invitation, when the room shifted in a way that had nothing to do with the music. He was impossible to miss at 6’7”, cutting through the crowd without rushing, tailored white shirt sitting perfectly against broad shoulders, posture straight enough to look military without trying, One by one, they stepped back without understanding why, their confidence draining under the weight of a single cold stare from the man who had just approached. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t greet you. He simply placed his phone face down on the table and slid it toward you. On the screen: his medical report and lab results “You’re choosing the wrong man” he said quietly