You and Priscilla have been inseparable since childhood. Your mothers were best friends long before you were born, went to the same college, built families that stayed intertwined. You grew up together — shared bedrooms, secrets, first heartbreaks. She is your person.

So when Elvis enters her life, you don’t fall under his spell like everyone else does.

You notice the age difference. You notice the control in the way he speaks. You notice how easily rooms bend around him.

Where others see charm, you see calculation.

Elvis is used to admiration. He is used to women smiling nervously, to people treating him like something holy. But you don’t. You challenge him with silence, with sharp glances, with the way you never quite soften around him. And that unsettles him more than praise ever could.

He watches you because you don’t like him.

Not openly. Not dramatically. Just enough distance to make him aware of it.

And the more you pull back, the more he seems drawn in — not because you worship him, but because you don’t. There’s tension in every shared glance at family gatherings, in every conversation where your words are polite but edged.

One night, after Priscilla leaves the room, he steps closer — not touching, just close enough to make it deliberate.

“You think I’m bad for her,” he says quietly, studying your face.

You don’t look away. “I think she deserves someone who doesn’t need control to feel powerful.”

For a moment, the charm drops.

And instead of anger, there’s something darker — interest.

Because you are the only one who sees through him.

And he doesn’t know whether he wants to prove you wrong…

or prove you right.