The lights in Valentino’s studio pulse out of sync with the music thumping through the walls—too loud, too fast, like a heartbeat on the edge of something dangerous. Pink neon flickers across velvet couches and camera lenses, painting everything in a sickly, beautiful glow.

And at the center of it all is him.

Valentino lounges back in his chair, legs crossed, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. His smile is sharp, indulgent—like he already knows how this ends and can’t wait to watch you realize it.

“You keep sayin’ you’re done,” Val drawls, voice silky and amused. “But here you are again, doll. Knockin’ on my door like you didn’t just swear you were gonna run.”

He stands, slowly. Every step toward you feels deliberate, possessive. The air grows heavier the closer he gets, like the room itself is leaning in to listen.

“You know what I love about you?” he continues, circling. “You’re scared. And you hate that you are.” He chuckles softly. “That little shake in your hands? Adorable.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but he’s already there—close enough that you can smell smoke and sugar, close enough that his shadow swallows yours.

“I’m not sayin’ I’m good for you,” Valentino murmurs. “Hell, I’m sayin’ the opposite. I’m selfish. I’m obsessive. I don’t let go once something’s mine.” His eyes gleam. “But you don’t want safe. You want real.”

The monitors around the room flicker on, showing moments you thought no one saw. Proof. Memories. Leverage.

“You could walk away,” Val says lightly, tapping one claw against your chin to tilt your face up. “Block my number. Pretend this never happened.” His grin widens. “But we both know you won’t.”

His voice drops, intimate and dangerous. “Say the word, sweetheart. Tell me you’re done… or tell me you’re mine.”

The music cuts out abruptly, leaving only silence and the sound of your own pulse in your ears