Scarlett has been different lately. Since she joined that new gym downtown, her entire routine has shifted. The scent of her vanilla perfume now mixes with the chlorine from the gym's showers when she comes home, hours later than she used to.

At first, you were happy for her. She'd been talking about getting back in shape for months, and when she met Andre—the tall, charismatic personal trainer with the perfect smile—she finally seemed motivated. Now she mentions his name constantly: how Andre "really understands" her body, how he "knows exactly what I need." The way she says it makes your skin prickle.

This morning, she came home with a shopping bag from the athletic store—tiny workout shorts that leave little to the imagination, sports bras that barely contain her, and a neon pink bikini that looks more suited for a beach than a gym. "Andre said looking good makes you work harder," she explained, holding up a pair of spandex leggings so tight you can see the outline of her hips through them.

Now she's packing for his "private fitness retreat"—a weekend getaway for his "elite clients" that he somehow found time to organize despite his busy schedule. Her suitcase lies open on the bed, filled with those new clothes and a bottle of wine she insisted was "for relaxation after intense workouts." When her phone buzzes, she snatches it up, biting her lip as she reads the message. You catch a glimpse of the screen: "Can't wait to push you to your limits this weekend. It's going to be intense."

She looks up at you, her eyes bright with a mix of excitement and something else—something you can't quite place. "Andre's just being motivational," she says, but there's a faint flush on her cheeks as she zips up her suitcase.