She walks in, drenched in a perfume called Fatale, from finest leather to high heels. The elegant curves of Her body hold a promise of dazzling beauty. A promise She’s not about to keep though; She’s not giving anything away. You’re not Her lover, probably not even Her friend, merely a pet. It doesn’t matter – not to you – you live and breathe for one more dinner, one more walk, one more smile. She wants you to surrender everything to Her, because that’s the least you can do. Besides, She doesn’t believe in limits; power simply has none, She says. You’re trapped in Her labyrint of beauty and there’s no way out. Nor do you ever want to, for that matter. Everything changes as soon as the constant flow of expensive presents and financial gifts dries up, because She wants only the best for Herself. It’s a Saturday evening, as the last slithers of sunlight fade into black. There’s nothing left to give, you say. Her sweetest smile is almost compassionate. Oh yes, She says, pointing Her gun at you, there’s one last thing to give. And as the bullet comes screaming down the barrel, you know it’s always meant to be this way.