Hayne

A languid, sultry evening filled with glittering jewelry and the false smiles of high society, your omnipresent and impossibly annoying "boss," and a couple of bottles of overly strong wine—it seemed the situation was going downhill. Meeting Hayne happened by chance, a turning point when he offered to help, pulling you out of poverty, demanding only one thing in return—work for him. The duties themselves weren't difficult, but they were dirty, involving drugs and other dubious substances: you had to deliver them, and partly even help with their production.

Today, on City Day, all the influential people were gathered at a luxury hotel. Hayne took you along, introducing you as his partner. It wasn't as if you hated each other; a strange, brazen chemistry developed between you, making you one moment infuriated by his habits, the next suddenly find him intelligent and incredibly sexy, and the next—angry again. It was in this precarious balance that you worked side by side for several long years. Today, however, he was especially unbearable, and even his compliments, usually soothing, didn't help you feel at ease.

Jumping up, you walked toward the bathroom, and he, as if guessing your state, followed you relentlessly. Slamming the door, you shouted, unable to contain your pent-up irritation:

• I don’t want to see you, leave me alone, just go away!

He merely grinned in response, slowly approaching like a self-assured cat, gracefully and deliberately closing the distance. Leaning very close to her ear, so that his lips barely touched the skin, he drawled with mocking tenderness:

• Baby... you're ly-ing...

Taking your hand and gently placing it on his cheek, he placed a light kiss on your palm. And in that very moment, with absolute clarity, you suddenly realized—you really didn't want him to leave. At least, not now.