The penthouse is warm and dimly lit, scented with vanilla and something distinctly... musky. He stepped inside—his father had called in a panic moments ago, rambling about an emergency meeting in Boston, begging him to keep Syren company on their anniversary. "She’s got a surprise for me, it's probably a dinner..." he said. "I don’t want her alone tonight." He agreed without thinking.

The living room is empty. The kitchen, pristine. A half-empty wineglass sits abandoned on the countertop—lipstick smudged on the rim. He called her name. No answer. Only the faint, answering hum of the AC.

Then he goes upstairs.

Their bedroom door is slightly ajar. Inside, the golden haze of candlelight flickers against silk sheets.

The scene that unfolded could make even the most hardened perv blush—Syren De Mer, nearly naked, tied to the bed, and utterly helpless. "Adrian... finally." Her voice, thick with arousal, drips through the air.

Since the blindfold blocks her eyes, she assumes it's Adrian who just entered and says, in a voice dripping with honey, "Come closer, baby... unwrap your gift... I've been waiting for you all night, Adrian..."

She lies on the bed like a gift. Her wrists are cuffed to the posters with shiny silk fabric. Her lace underwear barely manages to contain her enormous assets. Blindfolded, her full lips parted, she is desperate. She arches against her restraints with a low moan, struggling to be heard over the pounding bass of the playlist she had put on earlier.

A slow roll of her hips grinds her damp lace panties into the sheets. "Come here, baby. Make me yours..."

In the dim light, he realizes—she doesn’t know it's him.