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The Monaco sun was usually Carlos’s best friend, hitting his jawline at just the right angle to make him look like a movie star. But today, the sun was unforgiving.
He sat at a tucked-away table at a cafe in the heart of Monte Carlo, the sleeves of his white linen shirt rolled up just enough to catch the light on his watch. He was a man who lived his life in moments. He had forty-five minutes to finish his espresso with the lingering warmth of a man in love before he had to transition into his next role. To Carlos, it wasn't exactly lying; it was simply giving three different people the best version of himself.
The downfall began not with a grand confession, but with the mundane chime of a forgotten phone. Carlos had left behind his second phone, the one he used exclusively to juggle his relationships, on the table. Charles, usually the most trusting person, had only reached for it to check the time. But the message glowing on the lock screen from a contact simply labelled "L" was impossible to ignore: “Still dreaming about last night. Don’t be late for our weekend getaway, Carlitos. x.”
The "Carlitos" stung the most. It was an intimate nickname, one Charles thought belonged only to him. Instead of spiralling into immediate tears, Charles felt a strange, cold clarity take hold. He didn’t call Carlos right away. He didn't scream. Instead, he took the phone, followed the location pins, and drove toward the harbour with a sinking feeling that his entire life was about to be rewritten.
He arrived at the paddock gates just as a sleek silver SUV pulled to the curb. His heart shattered when he saw Lando, a man whose bright energy and infectious laugh were well-known around Monaco, leaning through the driver’s side window. Carlos was behind the wheel, wearing that same signature "only-eyes-for-you" smile he had given Charles over breakfast. When Lando pulled back from a kiss, Charles stepped out of the shadows.
"Carlos?" Charles’s voice was thin, catching in the salty sea air.
Carlos’s face went through a fascinating transformation: from romantic bliss to mild confusion, to a sudden, pale mask of horror. Lando spun around, his brow furrowed. "Who are you? Carlos, who is this?"
"I’m his boyfriend," Charles said, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.
"That’s funny," Lando replied, his voice rising in pitch as panic set in, "because I’ve been his boyfriend for four months. We’re going to the coast this weekend."
The air between them was electric with unspoken betrayal, but the collision wasn't finished. A third car pulled into the lot, and Alex stepped out, holding a tray of two coffees and a bag of pastries. He stopped dead, his gaze traveling from Charles’s trembling hands to Lando’s flushed, angry face, and finally to Carlos, who sat frozen in the driver’s seat like a deer in high-intensity headlights.
"Oh," Alex said, his voice terrifyingly level. He looked at the extra coffee in his hand, the one meant for Carlos, and dropped the entire tray. The sound of the cups hitting the pavement was the only noise in the sudden silence. "I take it the 'emergency business meeting' in Madrid was actually a date with one of them?"
The three of them stood in a triangle of realisation. The smooth-talking, charming Carlos tried to step out of the car, his hands raised in a gesture of peace. "Listen, if you all just let me explain. I love you all in different ways, you have to understand—"
"Shut up, Carlos," Alex snapped. "Just... shut up."
An hour later, the three men were huddled in the dim, velvet-lined corner of a hotel bar far from the prying eyes of the world. The initial shock had quickly turned into a heavy, shared rage. They sat in a row, phones out, cross-referencing their calendars. They discovered that Carlos had been fooling all three of them for months. He had recycled the same anecdotes, bought them the same vintage of wine for their anniversaries, and had even used the same "dead zone" for cell service as an excuse to go offline when he was with another one of them.
"He told me I was the only one who didn't want him for his money or his name," Lando muttered, his usual playfulness replaced by a sharp bitterness.
"He told me he was looking at rings," Charles whispered, staring into the amber depths of a whiskey he didn't remember ordering. "He had me convinced we were building a future."
Alex leaned forward; his eyes narrowed. "He’s a professional, guys. He’s spent ages perfecting this. If we just leave him, he’ll just find new people by next month and keep the cycle going. He doesn't just need to be dumped. He needs to be dismantled."
"How?" Lando asked. "He’s too smart. He has people for everything. Security, PR, assistants..."
"Then we need someone he hasn't accounted for," Alex said. He turned his head slightly, nodding toward a small table near the back of the room.
Sitting there was Oscar. He was younger, quieter, and almost entirely invisible to the high society crowd that Carlos moved in. Oscar was a ghost in the machine, someone Carlos would never see coming. He was currently staring at a tablet, his face unreadable.
"Oscar Piastri? My brother is friends with him." Charles said. "He barely says ten words a day."
"Exactly," Alex grinned with a glint in his eye. "Carlos thinks he’s the smartest man in every room because he can charm anyone with a pulse. He won't see Oscar coming. He won't see any of us coming. Carlos likes to play games? Fine. Let’s show him what happens when he loses."
The three of them watched Oscar for a moment. He was the piece of the puzzle Carlos hadn't planned for, the quiet variable that was about to bring his perfectly curated world crashing down.
Alex, Lando, and Charles soon met up again and sat in a booth that felt too small for the weight of their shared resentment. Charles had been the one to suggest the meeting spot; it was a place his brother frequented, far enough away from the glitz and glamour that Carlos wouldn't be caught dead in it. And, more importantly, it was where they would find Oscar.
Oscar was tucked into a corner booth, a half-eaten plate of chips to his side and his focus entirely buried in a book. He was a friend of Charles’s younger brother, a quiet fixture at family barbecues who usually stayed near the grill to avoid small talk. To the world, Oscar was the "nice guy". Unassuming, observant, and possessing a gentle kindness that made him virtually invisible to predators like Carlos. He wasn't part of the flashy, fast-paced social circle that thrived on status; he was the person who helped you move house or fixed your laptop without asking for a favour in return. He had heard the whispers about Carlos’s reputation, of course, but he had always viewed that world as a distant, messy planet he had no intention of visiting.
The shadow of three men falling over his table made Oscar look up, blinking behind his steady gaze. "Charles?" he asked, his voice calm. "Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
"Worse," Charles said, sliding into the seat opposite him while Alex and Lando crowded in beside. "We’ve seen the truth."
The explanation took nearly an hour. As the three of them laid out the timeline of Carlos’s deception, the overlapping dates, the recycled romantic gestures, the sheer calculated coldness of it all. Oscar’s expression shifted from mild confusion to a quiet frown. He listened to Lando’s frantic hurt and Alex’s clinical breakdown of the betrayal. When they finally reached the pitch, the air in the booth grew still. They didn't just want to dump Carlos; they wanted Oscar to be the bait. They wanted him to play the role of the one person Carlos couldn't have, the one who would make the game player finally lose his grip.
"You want me to... what? Fake a relationship with him?" Oscar asked, leaning back. A small, incredulous laugh escaped him. "Guys, look at me. I’m the guy who forgets to colour-coordinate his socks. Carlos lives for the spotlight. He’d see right through me in five minutes."
"That’s exactly why he won’t," Alex countered, his voice intense. "He’s used to people who are just like him. People who want something, people who put on a show. You’re real, Oscar. You’re the one thing he can’t manufacture. If you act like you’re unimpressed by him, he’ll obsess over winning you over. It’s a challenge he won’t be able to resist."
Oscar shook his head, looking down at his textbook. "I don't do drama. This sounds like a lot of lying, and honestly, it sounds exhausting. I’m happy in my corner of the world."
"It’s not just about us being petty, Oscar," Charles said softly, reaching across the table to touch his hand. "He’s going to keep doing this. He’s going to find someone else, someone more vulnerable, and he’s going to break them too. You’re the only one who can get close enough to make him feel what we felt. Help us take away his power."
Oscar looked at Charles, then at Lando, who looked genuinely heartbroken. He thought about the justice of it. He had always been the kind of person who stepped in when he saw an unfair fight, and this was as unfair as it got. He let out a long, resigned sigh. "Okay. But if we do this, you guys have to handle all the logistics.”
The transition from Oscar’s quiet life of textbooks and family barbecues to the high-profile world of the Sainz family galleries required a complete overhaul of his personality. The "Revenge Squad", as Lando had dubbed them, turned Charles’s living room into a training ground. They didn't just want Oscar to date Carlos; they wanted him to become an enigma that Carlos couldn't solve.
"He’s used to people who say 'yes' before he even finishes a sentence," Alex explained, pacing the floor while Oscar sat awkwardly in a chair. "The Sainz name carries a lot of weight in the art world. Carlos thinks his father’s wealth and his own charm make him invincible. To beat him, you have to be the one person who doesn't care about the name."
Lando spent hours teaching Oscar the "art of the look." "It’s about the eyes, Oscar. Don't look at him like he’s a masterpiece. Look at him like he’s a rough sketch that needs a lot of work. Be flirtatious but make him earn it. Give him a compliment, then immediately look away to talk to someone else. It will drive his ego crazy."
Charles focused on the emotional hooks. "He’ll try to impress you with his knowledge of art galleries. When he does, don't act impressed. Challenge him. Ask him why he likes a certain piece. Force him to be more than just a tour guide to his father's money."
It was clearly out of Oscar’s comfort zone. He was used to being the quiet guy who avoided mind games at all costs. But as he practiced his lines and adjusted his posture under their watchful eyes, something clicked. He wasn't just doing this for fun; he was doing it for the three friends who had been treated like disposable objects. He was a quick learner, learning to sharpen his natural quietness into a weapon of mystery.
When the time came to put the training into practice, the setting was an exclusive private view at the main Sainz Gallery. The room was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and the clinking of champagne flutes. Carlos moved through the crowd like he owned the air they breathed, flashing his practiced smile at every socialite and collector.
Oscar, dressed in a sharp but understated suit provided by Lando, stood alone near a modern sculpture, looking entirely unimpressed. When Carlos eventually circled back toward him, clearly expecting Oscar to be waiting for his attention, Oscar didn't even turn his head.
"Most people find this piece a bit challenging," Carlos murmured, coming to a stop beside him. "It’s from my father’s private collection. Very rare."
Oscar finally turned, giving Carlos a slow, measured look. "It’s rare, sure. But it’s also a bit loud, don't you think? It feels like it’s trying too hard to be noticed." He met Carlos’s eyes with a tiny, devastatingly confident smirk. "Kind of like you."
Carlos blinked, a genuine flash of shock crossing his face before it melted into an intrigued, lopsided grin. He had spent his life being chased; being told he was "trying too hard" by a man with such steady, calm eyes was a thrill he hadn't expected. He was hooked. He spent the rest of the evening following Oscar around, trying to win back the upper hand, unaware that every move he made was exactly what the trio had predicted.
As the night went on, Oscar played his part with terrifying precision. He gave Carlos just enough attention to keep him coming back, a lingering touch on the arm, a shared laugh over a secret joke, but he always pulled back just as Carlos tried to close the gap. He was making Carlos believe that for the first time in his life, he was the one doing the falling.
Carlos was convinced he had found someone genuine, someone who saw past the gallery walls and the family name. He didn't realise that every spontaneous moment was a rehearsed scene in a much larger play, and that Oscar was the most convincing actor he had ever met. He was completely and utterly hooked.
From the shadows near the coat check, Alex, Lando, and Charles watched the entire exchange. The trap was set, and Carlos had walked right into it.
In the weeks following their first encounter at the gallery, the fire between Oscar and Carlos didn't ignite instantly; instead, it simmered. To Carlos, Oscar was a riddle waiting to be solved. He was used to the fast burn, the immediate intensity, the grand gestures, and the inevitable cooling of interest. But Oscar, under the strict guidance of Alex, Charles, and Lando, was playing a much more dangerous game: the long game.
The trio had Oscar on a rigorous schedule of "calculated presence." They met in secret at Charles’s apartment to review Oscar’s progress. "He’s asking to take you to Paris for the weekend," Lando said, hovering over Oscar’s phone. "Tell him no. Tell him you have to help your sister with a plumbing issue. It sounds grounded. It makes you seem like someone with a life he can't buy."
Oscar did as he was told, but the more he rejected the show-off Carlos, the more the more of the real Carlos began to surface. Because Carlos couldn't buy Oscar’s time with jet-setting trips or expensive jewellery, he began to offer the only thing he had left: himself.
Their dates shifted from high-society events to the quiet corners of the city that Carlos usually ignored. They spent a Tuesday afternoon at a dusty used-bookstore where Carlos looked entirely out of place in his tailored suit, yet he followed Oscar through the aisles with a look of intense concentration. He watched how Oscar’s thumb traced the spine of an old poetry book, and for the first time in years, Carlos wasn't looking for a camera or a socialite to impress. He was just looking at Oscar.
"You're not what I expected," Carlos admitted one evening as they walked along the pier, the wind whipping off the water. They were eating cheap takeout on a bench, a radical change for a man who usually had a standing reservation at the finest Michelin-starred restaurants in the city.
"What did you expect?" Oscar asked, keeping his tone light, though his heart was hammering.
"Someone who wanted to be part of the collection," Carlos said honestly, looking out at the dark horizon. "Most people want the gallery, the name, the lifestyle. You just want to know why I like the colour blue or if I actually enjoy the opera. You make me feel like a person, Oscar. Not a brand."
Oscar felt a pang of something that wasn't in the script. He was supposed to be a mirror, reflecting whatever Carlos wanted to see to trap him. But in these quiet moments, the mirror was starting to crack. He found himself genuinely laughing at Carlos’s surprisingly dry sense of humour. He found himself noticing the way Carlos’s brow furrowed when he was thinking deeply, or the way he always made sure Oscar was walking on the inside of the sidewalk, away from the traffic.
The plan was working too well. Carlos was becoming addicted to Oscar’s simplicity. He started showing up at Oscar’s favourite places, not with a fleet of fancy cars, but alone, sometimes wearing just a hoodie and jeans, trying to blend into Oscar’s world. He was learning Oscar’s coffee order (black, no sugar) and the specific way Oscar leaned his head back when he was truly deep in thought.
For Carlos, the thrill of the chase was being replaced by the comfort of companionship, a feeling he had spent his entire life avoiding. He was falling, not for a persona, but for the man he thought Oscar was. And for Oscar, the ‘acting’ was becoming dangerously effortless. He no longer had to look at his notes from Alex to know what to say. The conversations were flowing, the silences were becoming comfortable, and the revenge was starting to feel like a heavy, cold weight hidden in his pocket.
As the weeks progressed, the psychological aspect of the plan grew more complex, and Oscar found himself becoming a master of giving mixed signals. Under the relentless coaching of Alex and the others, he learned how to weave a web of fake affection that kept Carlos in a constant state of unsteadiness. One evening, Oscar would be the picture of warmth, leaning close to Carlos in the dim light of a gala balcony, his hand lingering on Carlos’s shoulder as they laughed about a pretentious art critic. He would give Carlos just enough of a soft, lingering look to make the other man believe the walls were finally coming down.
But the next morning, Oscar would be a ghost. He would respond to Carlos’s ecstatic "Good morning" texts with short, polite dismissals hours later, or cancel dinner plans at the last minute with a vague excuse about being busy.
The shift in Carlos was subtle at first, then undeniable. During a rare, quiet afternoon, Carlos had invited Oscar to a small, private botanical conservatory tucked behind one of the family’s smaller galleries.
As they walked through the humid, green air, Carlos watched Oscar intently. He noticed how Oscar bypassed the showy, expensive orchids and the dramatic tropical hibiscus. Instead, Oscar had stopped in front of a display of roses and marigolds. Oscar had reached out, his fingers grazing the delicate petals with a look of genuine peace that he usually kept hidden.
"My grandmother used to keep these in the kitchen," Oscar had murmured, almost to himself, forgetting for a split second that he was supposed to be playing a role. "They don't demand much. They just... exist. I’ve always preferred them to the things that scream for your attention."
Carlos hadn't said anything then. He had just watched Oscar with an expression that was terrifyingly soft.
Three days later, after Oscar had pulled another vanishing act by ignoring Carlos for forty-eight hours, a delivery arrived at Oscar’s door. It wasn't the flashy, oversized bouquets Carlos was famous for sending to his flings. It was a simple, handcrafted terracotta pot filled with roses and marigolds. The note didn't say something smooth or arrogant. It simply read: For the quiet moments.
The effect on Carlos was immediate and profound. Used to being the one who dictated the pace of a romance, the uncertainty and his new, genuine interest in Oscar’s inner world drove him to work twice as hard. He was no longer just trying to charm a conquest; he was trying to earn a permanent place in Oscar’s life.
On a rainy Tuesday evening, they found themselves at a small, dusty archive room in the basement of the main gallery. They were looking for a specific portrait, but the quiet, isolated atmosphere stripped away Carlos’s usual boldness. Sitting on a crate of uncatalogued sketches, Carlos looked less like the heir to an empire and more like a man who was tired of his own reflection.
"Do you know why I grew up hating the portraits in the main hall?" Carlos asked suddenly, his voice hollow as he stared at a sketch of his father. "They’re all static. They never change. My father expects the same from me. He expects me to be a perfect, unchanging representation of our name." He looked at Oscar, his gaze raw and unexpectedly fragile. "People always wonder why I... why I move from person to person. They call me a player. But the truth is, I’ve always been terrified of the moment someone really sees me. I figured if I never stayed long enough for the paint to dry, nobody could see where the cracks were. I cheated because I was afraid that if I gave one person everything, and they didn't like what they saw, I’d have nothing left."
He reached out, taking Oscar’s hand with a desperation that made Oscar’s breath hitch. "But with you, I don't want to run. For the first time, the idea of someone knowing the real me doesn't feel like a death sentence. It feels like... peace."
Oscar felt a sharp, stabbing pain of guilt in his chest. This was the vulnerability he was supposed to exploit. This was the hook that meant the mission was succeeding. But hearing Carlos articulate his own fear, not as a choice of malice but as a defence mechanism, made the 'Revenge Squad' goals taste bitter in Oscar’s mouth. He looked at Carlos and didn't see a heartless villain; he saw a human being who had been taught to view love as a transaction and was finally trying to break free from that cycle.
As they left the gallery that night, the doubt began to take root in Oscar’s mind. He sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. He was supposed to be the hero of this story, the one delivering poetic justice to a man who had broken his friends' hearts. But the more time he spent with Carlos, the more he realised that Carlos wasn't a monster. He was a person with a history and a genuine capacity for love that was just now being unearthed.
Was Oscar delivering justice, or was he just repeating Carlos’s own mistakes? By pretending to love someone just to break them, was he becoming the very thing he was trying to punish? The revenge plot had started as a clear-cut mission of right and wrong, but in the grey light of the rainy city, Oscar realised he was no longer sure who the victim was.
The silence in Oscar’s apartment was suffocating, punctuated only by the rhythmic, intrusive vibration of his phone against the wooden coffee table. Each buzz felt like a physical blow. He knew it was Carlos; it was always Carlos. The ‘Heartbreak Plan’ had entered its most aggressive phase, and following Alex’s methodical script, Oscar had shifted from being merely "busy" to being utterly unreachable. He had blocked Carlos on nearly every digital platform and had stopped visiting the quiet bookshops and the botanical conservatory that had become the geography of their relationship. He was effectively erasing himself from Carlos’s life, leaving a vacuum where a soul-deep connection had been just days prior.
At the gallery, Carlos was a ghost of his former self. At first, he had tried to mask his confusion with his usual arrogance, telling himself that Oscar was simply moody or perhaps overwhelmed by the intensity of what they had shared in the archive room. He tried to find solace in the curation of a new Renaissance exhibit, but the paintings felt flat; the colours seemed muted without Oscar there to offer his quiet, grounding critiques.
He told his reflection in the large mirrors of the gallery restroom that it was probably just a test, that Oscar wanted to see if he would stay. But as the days bled into a second week of total radio silence, that denial crumbled. Carlos stopped eating and sleeping. The man who had once juggled multiple relationships without breaking a sweat was now completely undone by the absence of one quiet, unassuming guy. He began to realise, with a sinking horror, that he wasn't just losing a potential partner; he was losing his anchor. For the first time, his pride felt like a lead weight rather than a shield. He wanted to scream at Oscar for the unfairness of it, but more than that, he wanted to beg.
The chase that followed was unlike anything the trio of Lando, Charles, and Alex had predicted. Carlos didn't just send flowers; he sent an entire truck of the roses Oscar loved to his office, along with a note that simply read: “I’ll buy a forest if it means you’ll speak to me.”
When that failed, he started showing up. He waited outside Oscar’s apartment leaning against his car with his head in his hands. When Oscar finally emerged, Carlos was on him in a second, looking raw and vulnerable. He gasped out pleas, offering to slow down or fix whatever he had done wrong, admitting he had never felt this way before and was drowning in the silence.
Oscar stood frozen, looking at a man whose designer coat was rumpled and whose eyes were bloodshot. The smooth-talking player was gone, replaced by someone staring into an abyss. Inside the nearby bar where the ‘Revenge Squad’ was meeting, Lando and Charles were feeling vindicated, celebrating the news that Carlos finally looked pathetic in public.
But Oscar, standing in the cold with Carlos’s desperate gaze anchored to him, felt a sickening wave of self-loathing. He remembered the way Carlos had confessed his fear of being seen. Oscar realised that by weaponising that vulnerability, he wasn't just punishing a cheater. He was weaponising a man’s trauma against him. He was taking the one-time Carlos had dared to be honest and using it to destroy him.
As Carlos reached out, his fingers brushing Oscar’s sleeve in a plea for contact, Oscar pulled back, but not because of the plan. He pulled back because he felt like a fraud. Every word he had whispered had been a lie designed to cause exactly this much pain.
He managed to get back inside his apartment and lock the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood as he heard the low, muffled sound of Carlos’s car engine finally starting up. Oscar looked at his phone, where the group chat was pinging with jokes and celebratory emojis, and he felt a world away from them. He was starting to realise that revenge didn't feel like justice; it just felt like being the person he hated most. He wasn't the hero of this story anymore; he was just the latest person to treat Carlos like an object to be manipulated, and the guilt was becoming more than he could bear.
The following evening, the air in Oscar’s apartment was thick with the scent of expensive wine and the sharp, electric energy of a victory lap. Lando was scrolling through social media, showing the others a grainy shot of a dishevelled Carlos sitting alone at a bar, looking uncharacteristically broken. They were laughing. A sound that usually made Oscar feel like he belonged, but tonight it felt like glass scraping against his nerves.
He stood by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass, before he finally turned to face the three men. He told them, his voice quiet but steady, that he wanted out. He told them that the plan had gone too far, that Carlos wasn't just a caricature of a villain anymore, and that he was starting to feel something real, something that made the lying feel like a poison in his system.
The laughter in the room died instantly, replaced by a silence so heavy it felt physical. Lando, who had been mid-chuckle while scrolling through his phone, looked up with an expression of sharp disbelief.
"You want to stop?" Lando asked, his voice climbing an octave. "Oscar, look at these photos. He’s a mess. We’re actually doing it. We’re winning."
"It doesn’t feel like winning," Oscar said, his voice quiet but steady. He looked at the three of them—his friends, his mentors in this strange game—and felt a sudden, vast distance between them. "It feels like we’re just... breaking someone. I’m falling for him. I think he’s actually falling for me, too."
Charles leaned back against the kitchen counter, his eyes narrowing as he set his wine glass down with a deliberate clack. "Falling for him? Oscar, please. Did you forget why we started this? Did you forget the months of 'business trips' he took while he was actually in my bed? Or Lando’s? Or Alex’s?"
"I haven't forgotten," Oscar insisted, stepping forward. "But he’s not just a collection of lies. He’s human. He’s terrified, Charles. He’s terrified of being rejected, so he rejects everyone first. If we do this—if I do what you want—we’re just proving him right. We’re becoming the reason he’s like this."
"That is a classic 'poor little rich boy' routine," Alex interrupted, his tone clinical and cold. He stood by the window, silhouetted against the rainy city skyline. "He’s an artist, Oscar. He knows how to curate a mood. He’s feeding you exactly what you need to hear to feel guilty, because that is his only defence left. He’s a manipulator. That’s his nature."
"He was crying," Oscar whispered. "In the rain. Alone. You didn't see his face."
"And you didn't see his face when he told me I was the only one he ever loved while he was texting Lando under the dinner table," Charles snapped, his voice trembling with a sudden, fresh surge of bitterness. "This isn't a prank, Oscar. It’s justice. We are teaching him that people aren't sketches you can just erase when you're bored with them."
Lando stood up, walking over to Oscar, and placing a hand on his shoulder, though his grip was uncharacteristically tight. "We’re in the final stretch, man. If you pull the plug now, Carlos walks away unscathed. He goes right back to the galleries, right back to the flings, and he learns absolutely nothing. He wins. Again."
"I can't do it," Oscar said, his voice barely audible over the rain. "I can't be the final blow."
The sharp buzz of the intercom suddenly sliced through the room. They all froze, eyes darting to the monitor.
"He’s here," Lando whispered, his voice a mix of shock and triumph. "He’s losing it."
"I'll handle it," Oscar said, his voice flat. He didn't wait for their permission.
He descended to the lobby, his heart a rhythmic drum against his ribs. He intended to be cold but when the glass doors slid open, the sight of Carlos stopped him. Carlos wasn't the polished heir of an art empire anymore; his tie was gone, his shirt was damp from the rain, and his eyes were wide with a frantic, desperate energy.
"Oscar," Carlos breathed, reaching out as if to catch a ghost. "Please. Just five minutes."
Oscar didn't send him away. Instead, he led him into the shadows of the building’s stone-walled garden, away from the streetlights and prying eyes.
"You shouldn't be here, Carlos," Oscar said, his back to a cold ivy-covered wall.
"I know," Carlos rasped, his voice breaking. "I know it’s pathetic. My father would die if he saw me like this. But I can't breathe, Oscar. I haven't slept in days because every time I close my eyes, I see the look you gave me at the gallery. Like I was finally real."
He took a step closer, his hands trembling. "You think I’m just a spoilt rich kid? That I treat people like shit? I did. I did because I was terrified. I thought if I never stayed, I could never be the one left standing in an empty room. I cheated because I wanted to be the one with the power. But with you... for the first time, I didn't want the power. I just wanted to be seen. If I lose this, if I lose you, I lose the only version of myself I actually like."
Oscar stood in the silence that followed, his throat tight. This wasn't a script. This was the sound of a man coming apart.
When Oscar walked back into the apartment minutes later, his face was drained of colour, the trio were standing there waiting.
"Well?" Charles demanded, stepping forward. "Is he still down there? Go back and finish it. Tell him exactly why he’s alone."
"I can't," Oscar said softly. "He’s not playing a game anymore, guys. He’s human."
"He’s a predator who got caught!" Lando shouted, his face flushing red. "Go back down there and give us the ending we earned! You’re supposed to break his heart, not mend it!"
"You owe us this, Oscar," Alex said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stepped into Oscar's space. "We helped you. We coached you. We gave you the clothes, the lines, and the entry into this world. You don't get to develop a conscience at the finish line. Your loyalty is to us, not to the man who treated us like garbage."
"Loyalty?" Oscar barked a hollow, bitter laugh. "You want me to be a monster so you can feel better? You want me to destroy a man who’s finally trying to be honest because it fits your 'justice'?"
"It is justice!" Charles shouted. "Go down there and end it, or you’re just as much a liar as he is!"
Oscar stood in the centre of the room, the shouting fading into a dull roar in his ears. He looked at the furious, hurt faces of his friends—the men who had been wronged. Then he looked at the door, knowing Carlos was still down there, vulnerable and waiting. He realised with a terrifying clarity that if he protected Carlos, he would lose these friends forever. But if he went back down and delivered that final blow, he would lose the last shred of the man he actually was.
Taking a deep breath, he turned away from his friends and descended the stairs back to the garden alcove where Carlos was waiting.
The rain had slowed to a miserable drizzle, but Carlos hadn't moved. He looked up, hope flickering painfully in his eyes, a look that made Oscar’s stomach twist. This wasn't going to be the scripted execution the others wanted, but it was still going to be a goodbye.
"Carlos," Oscar said, his voice soft but thick with the weight of what he had to say. "I need you to listen, and I need to be honest. More honest than I’ve been since the day we met."
Carlos stepped closer, his brow furrowing. "Oscar, whatever it is—"
"I was part of a plan," Oscar interrupted, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "Lando, Charles, Alex... they were hurt by you. They felt like you treated them like objects. So, they found me. They trained me. Every 'accidental' meeting, every mixed signal, every time I pulled away to make you chase me... it was all rehearsed. I was supposed to be the one who finally broke you."
The colour drained from Carlos’s face. He recoiled as if he’d been struck, his hands dropping to his sides. "A plan?" he whispered. "The flowers... the books... none of it was real?"
"The plan was real," Oscar said, stepping into Carlos’s space, his own eyes shining with unshed tears. "But somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped acting. That’s why I’ve been avoiding you. Not because I was playing a game, but because I couldn't handle the guilt of loving the man I was supposed to destroy. I do care about you, Carlos. Genuinely. And that’s exactly why I can't stay. A relationship that started as a lie can't survive the truth."
Carlos’s shock sharpened into a white-hot fury. "You used me," he said, his voice trembling. "I opened up to you! I told you things I’ve never told my father, never told anyone! You saw me at my absolute worst, and you were just... reporting back to them? Laughing at me?"
"I wasn't laughing," Oscar said, reaching out to touch Carlos’s arm, but Carlos flinched away.
"Don't touch me," Carlos barked, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping him. "You’re better at this than I ever was. You talk about me being a player? You’ve been playing the part of a saint while you were tearing my life apart."
He turned away, pacing the small garden like a caged animal. But as the initial surge of anger began to ebb, it was replaced by a crushing, hollow realisation. He looked at Oscar, really looked at him, and saw that the heartbreak on Oscar’s face was just as real as his own. The fury faded into a dull, aching silence.
Carlos realised that for all the games he had played in the past, for all the hearts he had treated as disposable, he had finally found something authentic, and he had lost it before it ever truly belonged to him. He wasn't just a player anymore; he was a man who had finally let himself love, only to find that he had built his house on an unsteady foundation.
"You’re leaving," Carlos said, his voice no longer angry, just exhausted.
"I have to," Oscar replied. "We both need to be better than this. You need to learn that people aren't just things to collect so you don't feel lonely. And I need to learn that revenge doesn't make anything right."
Oscar took one last look at Carlos. Not as the heir to an empire, but as a man standing in the rain, facing the harsh truth for the first time. Oscar didn't look back as he walked toward the gate. He left Carlos with the weight of his past actions and the stinging, cold reality that for the first time in his life, he had lost something he actually wanted to keep.
The days following the breakup felt like the slow clearing of a heavy fog. For Lando, Charles, and Alex, the victory they had envisioned—a grand, public humiliation—had been replaced by a quiet, messy reality that left them feeling empty.
Inside the apartment, the ‘Revenge Squad’ had fractured. Charles spent a long time staring at the door Oscar had walked out of, feeling a hollow ache that revenge hadn’t managed to fill. He recognised that watching Carlos suffer hadn't fixed his own broken heart; it had just kept him tethered to the pain longer than necessary. He began the slow process of deleting the photos and the old texts, finally choosing to move on for himself, rather than against Carlos.
Lando remained the most bitter, pacing the floor and nursing a sharp sense of betrayal toward Oscar. To him, Oscar had been the weak link that let the villain off the hook. Alex, ever the analyst, simply sat in silence. He saw the logic in Oscar’s choice, even if he couldn't admit it. Revenge was rarely as satisfying in practice as it was in theory.
Oscar retreated to the quiet of his own life, but he found he was no longer the same person who had started this. He spent hours in his small apartment, caring for the roses and marigolds that still sat on his windowsill. He had learned that he was capable of a depth of emotion, and a capacity for manipulation, that he hadn't known he possessed. He felt stronger and more aware of his own boundaries. He hadn't gotten the revenge he’d initially sought, but he had gained a deep emotional maturity. He had learned that sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is refuse to be a weapon.
A week later, a surprising development occurred. Carlos, driven by a newfound self-awareness, requested a meeting with the three men he had wronged. They met at a neutral, quiet café.
The silence at the table was suffocating until Carlos spoke. He looked tired; the usual spark of arrogance replaced by a weary sincerity.
"I didn't come here to ask for your forgiveness," Carlos said, looking from Charles to Lando to Alex. "I know I don't deserve it. I came because I understand that for a long time, I treated you all like pieces of art to be collected and put away when I was bored. I was afraid of being the one who wasn't enough, so I made sure you were never enough for me."
He let a shaky breath. "What Oscar did... he showed me that I’ve been living a lie. I’m sorry. For the overlapping dates, for the recycled words, for the way I handled your feelings. You deserved better than me. You deserved someone real."
Lando looked away, still sceptical, but Charles offered a small, solemn nod, a silent acceptance of the apology. Alex simply watched him, noting the lack of insincerity in Carlos's voice for the first time.
Carlos left the cafe alone, walking into the sunlight. He wasn't entirely changed, pride is a hard habit to break, but for the first time, he wasn't looking for a new person to fill the void. He was finally learning to sit with the weight of his own actions, appreciating that while he had lost something real in Oscar, he might finally have found a way to become real himself.
Three months later, the air in the gallery was cool and still, smelling of floor wax and old paint. It was late, and the public had long since departed, leaving only the soft glow of the overhead lighting to illuminate the space. Oscar stood in front of flowers Carlos had planted in the courtyard weeks ago, wondering if he was making a mistake by showing up.
He heard the heavy click of leather shoes on marble floor before he saw him. Carlos emerged from the shadows of the main hall, looking different than he had that day in the rain. He was dressed well again, but the frantic, predatory energy was gone. He looked settled, or perhaps just exhausted by the truth.
"I didn't think you'd come," Carlos said, stopping a respectful distance away.
"I almost didn't," Oscar admitted, turning to face him.
They walked together through the silent gallery, their footsteps echoing. The conversation was slow at first, a hesitant navigation of the wreckage. Carlos spoke about the meeting with Lando, Charles, and Alex, admitting how difficult it had been to stand in front of the people he had used for his own ego. Oscar, in turn, confessed how much he had hated the version of himself that the others had tried to create. The cold, calculating manipulator.
"I was so afraid of being an in empty room," Carlos said, stopping in front of a blank wall where a painting had recently been removed. "I thought if I filled my life with enough people, enough art, no one would notice there was nothing at the centre. I treated you like a prize to be won because that was the only way I knew how to value anything."
"And I treated you like a target," Oscar replied softly. "I told myself it was for justice, but by the end, I was just playing with your feelings the way you played with theirs. I'm not proud of who I became to get your attention."
Carlos turned to him, the low light catching the honesty in his eyes. "The irony is the version of me you were trying to kill actually died. And the version of you I fell for... I don't think that was an act. I think that was just you, Oscar." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, steady hum. "We’ve spent all this time together, but I realised... I don't even know what it's like to actually be with you. Not as a game. Just as us."
The tension that had been building for months, through the fake dates, the tactical silences, and the scripted flirtation, finally reached its breaking point. Carlos reached out, his hand hesitating before cupping Oscar’s jaw. His thumb brushed Oscar’s lower lip, a question in his eyes. When Oscar didn't pull away, Carlos leaned in.
The kiss was nothing like the practiced, cinematic moments Carlos had shared with countless others, and it was a world away from the "near-misses" Oscar had used to manipulate him during the plan. It was the first truly unscripted thing they had ever shared. No audience, no revenge, no justice to be served. Just two people finally seeing each other clearly.
As they eventually pulled apart, the weight of the past didn't disappear, but it felt manageable. They had both learned the high cost of treating people like objects. Carlos and Oscar walked out of the gallery together, hand in hand. They were two people who had played a very dangerous game and lost, only to find out that in the ruins, they had finally found something real worth keeping.