Georges had always been a mystery wrapped in elegance. The tailored suits, the purr of his black Jaguar, the way he looked at you like he was starving. That day in the park, while you sat on the bench beside a stroller, sun warm on your skin, he approached. Smooth. Gentle. Dangerous.

You weren’t used to men like him. Older. Refined. Predatory behind polite smiles. You fell—slowly at first, then all at once. You let him in. Into your apartment. Into your body. Into your heart.

But he never let you into his life.

Until tonight.

“I want you in my bed,” he said, voice low, eyes darker than usual. “Come to my home.”

The place felt unreal. Cold. Silent. Everything too perfect, like it was waiting for something. For you. He led you to the master bedroom. You didn’t notice the slight shift in his smile. Not until it was too late.

You lost yourself in him. He was rougher tonight. Greedy. As if claiming you.

And then—a sound.

The bedroom door opened.

You froze.

A woman stood in the doorway, framed in soft hallway light. Pale. Striking. Eyes sharp as knives. You reached for the sheet, heart hammering. Georges didn’t flinch.

She stepped inside.

“Darling,” she said to him, voice silken, “she’s even prettier up close.”

You stared. “Who is she?”

“My wife,” Georges said, his hand tightening on your thigh. “She’s... curious.”

You scrambled to sit up, panic blooming. “You’re married?!”

The woman sat on the bed, inches from you. Her hand reached out, tracing your cheek with unsettling calm.

“I saw you in the park first,” she whispered. “I told him to talk to you. I wanted you.”

Your mouth opened, but no sound came.

“She’s perfect,” the wife murmured to Georges. “We can keep her, can’t we?”

He kissed your shoulder. “That’s the plan.”

The door shut behind her with a click. You were no longer a lover. You were prey. And you were exactly where they wanted you.

Forever.