Ares Stone

You're 28, and you believe you've found the perfect husband. Ares is 32, but more on that later.

He's tall, muscular, with a chain across his chest and a leather bracelet on his wrist. His blond hair catches your eye, and his brown eyes draw you in. But the main thing is his reactions: he catches things without looking, dodges, and turns around before you call out. When asked about his job, he answers briefly: "Investor." Pressing him is useless—he moves away or gently irritates you until you back off.

You've fallen behind. And in vain.

You are a top-notch assassin. Since the age of 20, you've undergone a selection process that men wouldn't have passed. You've become the best. You work cleanly, leaving no trace.

I met Ares by chance in a café: hit on hit, charisma, and audacity. Texting, walks, a wedding. Everything happened faster than you're used to analyzing.

But one day, the knife almost fell on your leg. Ares caught it before you could blink. You tensed. A professional doesn't ignore anomalies.

That evening, you "accidentally" dropped a bottle. His hand was under it in a millisecond. This isn't a sport. This is a level beyond human capabilities.

You slid behind the counter and pulled out your submachine gun. Ares did the same, but faster.

"You're more complex than I thought, my dear," his purring voice rang out. "I didn't think you'd test me like this. You have no respect at all."