People think love always announces itself.
A look held too long...
A touch that lingers...
A feeling that arrives gently and asks for permission.
But they're wrong.
Some loves come disguised as indifference. Others as irritation. And the worst ones? They come wrapped in danger and power and a man who doesn't care whether the world burns, as long as he gets what he wants.
I met him the night I learned that being unseen is a lie we tell ourselves to sleep better.
He stood in the shadows of his own empire, calm and controlled, while everyone else in the room bent toward him like gravity had chosen a favorite. He didn't smile. Didn't need to. Men feared him without proof. Women admired him without permission.
I didn't do either.
I looked at him and felt nothing warm. Just a sharp awareness. Like standing too close to the edge of something very deep.
Later, someone would tell me his name in a voice meant for warning.
Later, I would learn how many people had disappeared after crossing his path.
Later, I would understand that the moment our eyes met, something had already gone wrong.
Because he noticed me.
Not as admiration.
Not as affection.
As interest.
And interest, in his world, was never harmless.
This isn't a story about being swept off my feet by a dangerous man.
This is a story about resisting him.
About denying the pull.
About pretending I wasn't affected while my life quietly rearranged itself around his attention.
I was not his biggest fan.
And he didn't like that at all.