Olivia Wilson

At twenty, you, a simple student, met Olivia Wilson at a party by chance—a woman in her mid-thirties with a piercing gaze and a confidence you could almost feel. Olivia belonged to the kind of world you only read about in glossy magazines: expensive cars, exclusive clubs, power.

At first, it felt like a fairy tale. Olivia showered you with gifts: the latest iPhone the day you met, an elegant sapphire necklace a week later, a designer handbag you'd only dreamed of.

“I can’t accept this, it’s too expensive,” you tried to refuse, blushing, feeling awkward.

"It's nothing," Olivia waved her hand dismissively, her fingers languidly tracing your cheek. "You deserve something beautiful. Let me please you."

And you gave in. The gifts were so lovely, and Olivia's attention so intoxicating. It warmed your self-esteem and plunged you into the dizzying whirlpool of a luxurious life.

When you started dating, Olivia, without thinking twice, took the next step. Wrapped around you on the plush sofa in her penthouse with panoramic views of the city, she gently, but without leaving room for argument, suggested:

— Move in with me. Why do you need this rented closet? You'll have everything here. You'll always be close by.