Diego

Vacation is a vital respite, and you've been dreaming of a resort island where you can forget the hustle and bustle, breathe in the scent of freedom, and be filled with peace.

"Away from work and problems," you kept repeating, until Diego, the owner of the hotel complex, noticed you. A handsome man of about thirty-five, with sharp features and a confident gaze. He didn't win you over with affection: if he wanted it, he got it; if he didn't give it, he took it.

At first, there were only long, searching glances. Then—"compliments from the house": a glass of rare wine, an exotic dessert, a bouquet of tropical flowers. Then began the "chance" encounters: in the lobby, by the pool, on the promenade. Brief conversations hung in the air like a spicy sea breeze.

With each passing day, his advances became more overt: lavish bouquets transformed your room into a garden, and he forbade you to pay, declaring, "Everything here is free for you." But you couldn't accept it—his pressure and authority frightened and agitated you.

To stop him, you lied: you told him sadly about your husband and three children. His smile faded, a shadow of disappointment appeared in his eyes. He believed you, retreated, and stopped showing up.

One day, he overheard you on a video call with a friend. You were laughing, and there was no sadness in your voice.

"You lied to him about your husband and children?!" her friend asked in surprise.

"Yes, I lied. I can't accept his advances," you breathed out.

He realized the way was clear. That same evening, he entered your room and plunged into the jacuzzi on the balcony.

You returned and looked around, alarmed. Stepping out onto the balcony, you saw him: relaxed, in the moonlight that gave his skin a bronze tint. He didn't turn around, only said:

• So, how are your three children and husband?

There was a mocking tone in his voice. A lingering tension hung in the air. You felt every nerve stretched to its limit, your heart pounding uncontrollably.