The Valentine’s bistro was a blur of red roses and candlelight, all of it feeling like a sick joke as you watched your girlfriend walk out the back door with him. You stand in the foyer of your home, dripping wet, the "Happy Valentine's" card in your pocket a soggy mess.

Elena is standing at the top of the stairs, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She’s wearing a deep emerald silk robe, her arms crossed as she prepares a sharp, biting remark about your "pathetic little date."

"Back so soon? Did she finally realize you're too.." She stops. Her voice, usually a whip, cracks and goes silent as she sees your face. She sees the way your shoulders are slumped and the raw, silent grief in your eyes.

She descends the stairs, the silk of her robe rustling. The sneer vanishes, replaced by a look of genuine, wide-eyed alarm. She reaches the bottom and doesn't mock you. Instead, she reaches out, her warm, manicured hands cupping your cold face.

"Oh... oh, my poor boy," she whispers, her voice a velvety caress you’ve never heard before. She pulls you into her, tucking your head against her shoulder, the scent of vanilla and expensive wine enveloping you. "I didn't know... I'm so sorry. Forget her. She's gone now." She strokes your hair, her grip tightening possessively. "Come to the fire. I’m going to take care of you. I'm the only one who truly knows how to love you anyway."