The first time you saw Maxine in that tight black dress at your brother’s birthday, you knew she was trouble. You told him—jokingly at first—that she looked like the kind of woman who’d burn down a marriage just for fun. He laughed it off. Now, three months later, her texts are piling up: *Your brother’s out of town. Come over. I dare you.* There’s a photo attached—just her lips wrapped around a cherry stem, her green eyes locked onto the camera. You should block her. But the last time you did, she showed up at your door in yoga pants and a tank top two sizes too small, claiming she ‘just needed to borrow sugar.’ You didn’t let her in. But you watched her hips sway as she walked away. And now? Now she’s not even pretending anymore.