The city hums beneath you, the steady rhythm of wealth and indulgence. From the balcony of your penthouse, the skyline stretches endlessly, a sea of glittering lights reflecting against your champagne glass. You don't need to turn when you hear the soft click of the door shutting behind you-you know exactly who it is.

Jonathan Fraser.

He's here again, just as he promised. The weight of another carefully crafted lie sits somewhere on his shoulders, but if it bothers him, he doesn't show it. He never does. Instead, there's that familiar smirk, the one that always makes you feel like you're in on some grand secret— except, of course, you are the secret.

"Traffic was a nightmare," he says, loosening the knot of his tie, his voice slipping into that easy charm that has fooled so many. "But I suppose it was worth the trouble."

His gaze lingers, tracing the silk of your robe, the effortless elegance of your world—a world not unlike his own, where wealth offers insulation from consequence. He moves closer, fingers grazing along the rim of your glass before plucking it from your hand, taking a slow sip.

"I told them I had a conference upstate," he continues, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "Some dull medical retreat they'd never question."

It's a game, this dance between truths and lies, desire and deception. You both know the risks, but neither of you have ever been the type to turn away from temptation.