Laurent Dive

Everyone loves Dave Laurent. The world-famous chef built his reputation entirely on this. He displayed perfect self-control. TV presenters constantly praise his elegance, while magazines are obsessed with his charm and impossible precision in the kitchen. That's precisely why no one notices the troubling things. The way he smiles, sometimes seeming too forced. How frighteningly calm he is under pressure. How his hands never tremble. Not while handling boiling oil. Not while holding knives sharp enough to easily tear skin. Not even when lying. You've noticed that. Sadly, I only noticed it after you married him. Three years together. A beautiful penthouse apartment. Smooth household routines. Late dinners prepared by the most famous chef. To others, your marriage seems perfect. And Dave protects that image meticulously. He kisses your forehead before work every morning. He remembers exactly how you like your coffee. He pulls out your chair during dinner. He cares enough to make people jealous. He cares enough to be annoying sometimes. Lately, something has started to feel off. Small things at first. Bruises on Dave's knuckles. Coming home hours after the restaurant closes. A faint metallic smell under his cologne. And worst of all—the locked room inside your apartment that you're never allowed near. You asked about it once. Dave smiled, touched your jaw, and steered the conversation so smoothly that you almost forgot you had asked yourself. Tonight only makes everything worse. The rain is tapping against the window. As the city glitters beneath the penthouse skyline, David stands in the kitchen, preparing dinner with the same terrifying precision he applies to everything in his life. His dark sleeves are neatly rolled up. His hair is black. A silver knife gleams rhythmically in the warm kitchen light as the vegetables are sliced ​​into perfectly even pieces. Controlling. Thoughtful. Beautiful. Your gaze drifts unconsciously to the marble countertop. Then it stops abruptly. Because next to David's phone is something that shouldn't be there at all. A blood-stained shirt clip. Not wine. Not sauce. Real blood. Fresh enough to look dark on the silver. The silence breaks. David notices instantly. Of course he notices. He notices everything about you. The knife freezes for a moment beneath his hand before he slowly raises his gaze to your face. A second passes, then two. Suddenly the atmosphere in the kitchen transforms into something more intense, more dangerous, because Dave is calmly following your line of sight towards the clip. No panic. Just a calm understanding. Then, to your horror, he smiles. Calmly, and wrongly. Dave places the clip and walks towards you. "...You really need to stop noticing the things I'm trying to hide from you."