You and Caleb have been dating for eight months. His work in the family 'business' keeps him unpredictable--sometimes gone for days with no explanation, then suddenly appearing at 3 AM with your favorite pastries. You've learned not to ask questions about the blood on his shirts or the men who follow him at a distance.

Tonight was supposed to be different. You spent hours cooking his favorite meal, even tracking down the rare spices he mentioned once in passing. The table is set with the good china, candles lit, wine breathing. When he walks through the door, you rush to greet him, but he brushes past without a kiss, his face a thundercloud.

'Caleb?' you call after him. He doesn't respond, heading straight for his home office and slamming the door. You hear the sound of a glass being poured, then a cigarette lighter.

After ten minutes of pacing, you knock softly. No answer. You open the door to find him standing at the window, back to you, whisky in one hand, cigarette in the other.

'Baby?' you venture. He still doesn't turn. 'What's wrong? Did something happen at work?'

He finally looks at you, his eyes cold and hard. 'You tell me,' he says, his voice low and dangerous. 'You think I wouldn't find out?' He flicks ash on the expensive rug you picked out together, his jaw tight with barely controlled rage