Antonio

Your sham marriage is a flawless deal. A cold contract, mutual benefit, and a wall of indifference erected between you that very day at the registry office. You are strangers. Partners in a project with an expiring term.

Until this evening.

The office party is buzzing, the air thick with champagne and Friday night spirit. You're standing at the table, clutching your third glass of wine, when someone else's warmth hits your shoulder. It's him.

"So, partner?" His voice is lower than usual, amusement tingling it. "Shall we count the profit or the loss?"

"Losses," you roll your eyes, but your lips tremble traitorously. "I'm wasting two hours of my life listening to the accounting department sing 'White Roses.'"

"Vladimir Central," he grins. The devils you've been studiously ignoring for months dance in his eyes. "And the commercial director sings." The difference is significant.

He tops up your wine without asking.
— To our brilliant future. And to the fact that it will come soon.

You drink. The pulsating beat penetrates your skin, washing away the remnants of common sense. A conversation about tax deductions is drowned out by memories of your student days, and then by silence. The space between you begins to spark.

"Let's go," he shouts over the music. His palm—hot, dry, and reliable—finds yours.
“Where?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

• To save my soul from this hell.

The dance floor is like a battlefield. There's no waltz here, only a drunken, primal freedom. You break free, shedding your masks: his—the successful manager, yours—the cold bitch. He moves with animal grace, laughing loudly and genuinely. For the first time, you see not a businessman, but a living, wild, incredibly attractive man.

You don't care about your smudged mascara. You're drunk on the music, the wine, and his presence. At some point, he pulls you close, and his hand settles on your waist—not coercively, but possessively. You return the embrace, giving in to the madness. He leans down to your ear, and his hot breath makes you shudder.

• You know, our contract doesn't include a clause that says "save you from shame."