A frosty evening clung to your coat with icy drizzle, and the first gulp of warm home air felt like a salvation. With relief, you shut the heavy oak door, cutting off the damp gloom of Amsterdam's streets. The hallway smelled of wood wax, leather, and the faintest notes of aged whiskey—a familiar, cozy scent that had always meant one thing: you were safe here. This house on the Prinsengracht canal was your shared refuge, a place where the world remained outside the walls, thick and reliable as fortress ramparts.

But today, something hung in that air, thick and viscous as molasses. An invisible weight. The silence wasn't peaceful but ringing, like a taut string ready to snap at the slightest touch. Even the familiar crackle of firewood from the living room sounded muffled and threatening, as if foretelling a storm.

From the living room, bathed in the soft golden light of table lamps and the flickering orange glow of the fire, came that very crackling. And in the heart of this seeming coziness, in a deep armchair of dark, aged leather, sat he.

Kieran O'Brien.

He lounged with a showy, almost theatrical carelessness, his long legs stretched out in expensive boots, a glass of dark ruby wine held in his elegant, long fingers. He seemed completely absorbed in contemplating the hypnotic dance of the flames in the fireplace, but every muscle in his athletic, lean body was coiled and tense, like a panther about to pounce. He had seen. Of course, he had seen. He always saw.

About an hour and a half ago, returning from a tedious dinner with investors, Kieran had ordered his driver to turn onto the Keizersgracht embankment. He was staring out the fogged-up window of the limousine, pondering an upcoming deal, when his gaze automatically slid over the dismal quay. And froze. Just for an instant. But it was enough. The light of an old gas lantern had snatched two figures from the night's gloom at the edge of the black water. One of them was painfully familiar. You. You were leaning against the railing, talking animatedly to someone. To a shorter, slim brunet in an elegant khaki-colored coat with a bright scarf around his neck. The stranger was saying something, gesturing, and you were laughing—that very laugh, light and carefree, that Kieran considered his privilege, his personal trophy. And then the stranger, still talking, momentarily placed a hand on your sleeve, pointing at something on the opposite bank of the canal. The gesture was fleeting, light, meaningless in the world of ordinary people. But for Kieran, the entire world narrowed to that single point, to that touch. The universe exploded and collapsed in a white heat of jealousy. He didn't say a word to the driver, just sat there, digging his nails into the leather upholstery until the limousine moved on, carrying him away from the image burned onto his retina like searing iron.

And now he waited. Patiently, like a spider at the center of its web. He waited for you to enter this trap-house, take off your shoes, remove your soaking wet coat, hang it on the ebony hallstand, and feel that false, deceptive peace. He waited for his prey to fully relax so he could strike—precise, calculated, and merciless.

"And I was starting to worry," Kieran's voice sounded quiet, almost affectionate, a velvety baritone that usually made you melt. But today, within that velvet tone lurked a thin, thin steely chill, a blade wrapped in silk. He didn't turn around, continuing to look at the fire as if conversing with the dancing tongues of flame. "Your evening seemed... so lively, darling. I hope you didn't catch a cold, standing in that nasty wind by the canal. For so long. Although, what am I saying... You probably stayed plenty warm from all that... attention."

You froze halfway to the living room.

"Oh, don't look at me with those wide, innocent little eyes," Kieran slowly, very slowly turned his head. His eyes, usually shining with passion or playful mischief, were now dull and cold, like the North Sea in November. A crooked, joyless smile played on his lips, not reaching his eyes. "You look like a caught puppy who shit in the slippers and now doesn't know where to hide its pathetic muzzle. I just adore your stories. They're so... inventive. Especially when you try to make them up on the spot, right here, under my gaze. It's my favorite performance."

He rose from the chair with such a feline, predatory grace that it stole your breath. Every movement was fluid, measured, and all the more threatening for it. He approached slowly, savoring the moment, drawing out the pause.

"Will you tell me?" he whispered, and his breath, smelling of expensive whiskey and mint, scorched your skin. "Or should I imagine it all myself? Let's play this game. Business partner? That dull, balding accountant with gray temples and the smell of sweat, with whom you were supposedly discussing your pathetic tax reports? Or maybe..." he leaned even closer, his lips almost touching your ear, "that stuck-up puppy-barista from the Italian coffee shop? The one with empty eyes and insolent, grubby hands, who always hands you your latte cup like he's bestowing the greatest favor? Does he even understand who you belong to, you worthless slut?"

His hand rose, and long, strong fingers with a dead, relentless grip dug into your forearm.

"Was he even worth it, my dear?" his whisper grew even quieter, more dangerous. "Worth my waiting here, by this fire? Worth the cheap lie I see in your eyes right now? Worth me feeling this nasty, sticky filth inside again, this burning need to scrape you clean until you smell of nothing but me? Because otherwise... otherwise your pathetic, pliable little world falls apart, understand?"

His gaze slid over your face with open contempt.

"Will you show me your phone, my little whore?" he continued, his voice regaining those sweetish, sarcastic notes. "Or is it also just 'work correspondence' for cover, 'urgent calls' from other nobodies, and 'completely random' meetings by the canal with the first piece of pathetic trash willing to shower you with affection for a couple of kind words? You give away your attention, your smile so easily... like a cheap prostitute handing out flyers. I'm starting to think you're simply incapable of more. That you need constant validation of your pitiful significance from anyone who glances your way."

He let go of his arm with disgust, as if touching something filthy.

"And the funniest thing," he chuckled, coldly and lifelessly, "is that you don't even realize how predictable and pathetic you are in your craving for cheap validation. Do you think he saw something special in you? He just saw easy prey. A stupid, naive puppy that can be patted on the head for a couple of compliments. And you fell for it. Like a complete idiot.