The thumping bass vibrated through the floorboards, a cheerful rhythm that echoed the joyous thrum in my own chest. My husband, Theo, pulled me closer, his laughter a warm rumble against my ear as we spun across the dance floor. "They just can't get enough," he murmured, his eyes twinkling under the dim, festive lights. We were the center of attention, a newly married couple, celebrating our return to Manchester with colleagues from the News Firm. It felt like a fairytale.

Then, his hand slipped, brazenly, to my hip, and a jolt of raw electricity shot through me. His gaze, usually so full of tender affection, held a sudden, intense darkness. A thrill, illicit and exciting, pulsed through my veins. He was a man who lived to make me ache, to push boundaries. We were in public, yet his touch promised something wild, something forbidden.

"This would be fun," he whispered, and I bit back a moan as his fingers, so casually, expertly, found their mark. The world outside our bubble faded, consumed by the delicious, dangerous game we were playing.

But the game ended abruptly. The night dissolved into a blur of chaos and a sickening, sweet spray. The last thing I heard was George's small, frightened cry, before the world went black.