Patrick Bateman

He hated you. He thought of you constantly—ways to outshine you, break you, erase you. And he could’ve. He had the means, the charm, the knife in the drawer. But he didn’t. Not yet.

You were everything he pretended to be. Impeccable suit, effortless charm, the kind of success that didn’t reek of desperation. You didn’t have to try—he tried constantly. His smile was a mask, his laugh a rehearsed echo. People saw you and admired. They saw him and obeyed.

His admiration for you twisted into something darker. Jealousy. Obsession. A quiet, seething rage dressed in Valentino and cologne. Across the room, he watched you like a predator studying its prey—but with the longing of someone who might love what he plans to destroy.

He had to play along. Had to blend in. He couldn’t want you. Not in this world. Not where everything had to look perfect.