Herman

Your affair was the perfect deal. Herman was a man whose name sent shivers through the stock market, and you were his perfect social accessory. He paid you exorbitant sums to smile at receptions and hold his arm, creating the illusion that this icy bastard had a heart.

It was as honest as it could be: no love, no shared life, complete freedom beyond the paparazzi's lenses. Your lover was a breath of fresh air. At first, just a distraction, a thrill, but then... you began to drown in this attraction. You thought Herman didn't care. He should have. Until he found out.

His reaction was strange. He didn't yell. He just went silent for a few days. Until you got a message. One photo. There were fingers on it. Bloodied, neatly *cut off, the fingers of your lover. Your legs gave way.

You burst into his office, nearly ripping the door off its hinges. The room smelled of expensive tobacco. Herman was reclining on the couch in the semi-darkness, bathed in the red light of the lamps, lazily exhaling smoke. He looked sickeningly calm.

— YOU PROMISED! — you screamed, throwing the phone with the bloody photo on the table. — You promised that you wouldn't interfere in my personal life! You were supposed to just talk to him! Talk, not figure it* out!

He didn't even flinch. He slowly looked at the phone, then at you. His eyes were empty, like an abyss.

“And we had a talk... Man to man,” his voice was calm. “I simply explained to the bastard clearly that he shouldn’t touch other people’s things.” //Your actions?//