Senator Daniel Whitmore did not blink for forty-three seconds before he broke.

The footage had been replayed so many times that the number was memorized.

Forty-three seconds of stillness in a man who had built his career on controlled movement. Forty-three seconds of unbroken eye contact with something that was not there.

Dr. Adrian Cole watched the frame freeze again on the massive screen in his office.

Whitmore’s face was not afraid.

It was devoted.

“I am being watched,” the senator had whispered into a room full of cameras.

Then his voice had risen. Then shattered.

Now the clip ended where it always did, with security closing in and a wife who looked more confused than concerned.

Adrian muted the sound.

Power did not unravel like that without cause.

Men like Whitmore did not hallucinate empty doorways.

They certainly did not look reverent while doing it.

He turned away from the screen and studied the file spread across his desk.

Three men in twelve months.

A senator.

A tech executive.

A defense consultant.

All-powerful.

All stable.

All publicly disciplined.

All destabilized within weeks of close contact with the same woman.

Freya Blackwood.

Her name appeared cleanly on every timeline. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just present.

A gala here.

A private dinner there.

A fundraiser.

A discreet invitation.

After her presence, a decline followed.

Insomnia.

Obsessive behavior.

Jealous paranoia.

Public emotional fractures.

It read like romantic breakdown.

Except that the intensity was wrong.

This was not heartbreak.

This was cognitive collapse.

Adrian stood and walked to the window overlooking the river. Boston moved with a predictable rhythm outside. Traffic lights shifted. Pedestrians crossed. Nothing cracked.

He did not believe in superstition. He believed in stimulus and response.

And Freya Blackwood was stimulated.

His phone vibrated against the desk.

New footage recovered from Whitmore’s private residence.

Adrian returned to his chair and opened the file.

The video feed showed Whitmore pacing alone in his study two nights before the press conference. Curtains drawn. Lamps dim.

He looked agitated at first.

Then he stopped.

Completely.

His body relaxed.

His expression softened into something almost tender.

He stared toward the doorway.

No one entered.

Whitmore took a step forward.

“Freya,” he whispered.

Adrian leaned closer to the screen.

The doorway was empty.

Whitmore smiled.

It was not the smile of a man in love.

It was the smile of a man kneeling.

Adrian paused the frame.

There were no signs of psychosis in Whitmore’s prior medical history. No substance use. No neurological events. Nothing explained this kind of behavioral shift.

Only proximity.

Only her.

A knock interrupted the silence.

His assistant stepped in quietly.

“Dr. Cole. Ms. Blackwood is here.”

Adrian checked the time. Exactly when she said she would arrive.

“Where is she?”

“In reception. She declined the conference room. She said she prefers to understand a space before sitting in it.”

He almost smiled.

Predators surveyed territory before settling.

“I’ll meet her there.”

He walked through the corridor without haste. He did not rush first impressions. They revealed more when unprepared.

Freya stood at the far window.

Black wool coat.

Minimal jewelry.

Hair loose but deliberate.

She was not performing.

That was the unsettling part.

She looked like she belonged anywhere.

She did not turn when he entered.

But something in her posture shifted slightly. A micro adjustment. Acknowledgment without surprise.

“Ms. Blackwood.”

She turned then.

Photographs had captured her features.

They had not captured the effect.

Her gaze was steady.

Not inviting.

Not warm.

Studying.

“Dr. Cole,” she said softly. “I was beginning to think you preferred observation to conversation.”

Her voice was even. Controlled. Intimate without being personal.

“I prefer data,” he replied.

“And am I data?”

“You are a variable.”

A faint curve touched her mouth.

“I hope I am at least an interesting one.”

He stepped closer, maintaining measured distance.

“You were the last private guest at Senator Whitmore’s home before his breakdown.”

“I attended dinner.”

“Alone.”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

“Would you describe the evening as emotional?”

She considered him.

“I would describe it as attentive.”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

The answer landed without arrogance. Without apology.

She was not denying influence.

She was claiming gravity.

He studied her pupils. Her breathing. The tension in her hands.

Nothing abnormal.

Nothing reactive.

If anything, she seemed calm. Almost patient.

As though waiting for something to happen.

“You’ve been connected to two other men with similar behavioral deterioration,” he continued.

“Connected is a flexible word.”

“Then choose a better one.”

Her eyes sharpened slightly.

“Admired,” she said.

The air between them felt subtly compressed.

He was used to charm, to manipulation, used to the slow psychological drift of attraction in conversation.

He felt none of it.

No pull.

No disorientation.

No desire to impress.

He felt steady.

Grounded.

Entirely himself.

And that was when he noticed the shift.

Her pupils widened.

Just slightly.

Her gaze flickered across his face, searching.

Expecting.

She took one slow step closer.

“Tell me something, Dr. Cole,” she said quietly. “Do powerful men often seek your help when they lose control?”

“Yes.”

“And do they usually blame the woman?”

“Only when they cannot blame themselves.”

Her expression changed for the first time.

Not anger.

Not amusement.

Confusion.

It vanished quickly.

“You’re remarkably composed,” she observed.

“So are you.”

Silence stretched.

He did not blink.

Neither did she.

Seconds passed.

Ten.

Twenty.

The room felt smaller.

Something unspoken pressed between them.

Then she inhaled.

And stepped back.

“Thank you for your time,” she said. Smooth again. Controlled again. “If you require anything further, my attorneys will cooperate.”

She moved toward the exit with unhurried precision.

At the doorway, she paused.

Not dramatically.

Just enough to look at him one more time.

This time, there was no composure.

There was calculation.

And something darker beneath it.

Hunger.

It disappeared the moment he registered it.

The door closed.

Adrian stood alone in the reception area.

His pulse was normal.

His thoughts were clear.

No dizziness.

No emotional spike.

No cognitive fog.

Nothing fractured.

He returned to his office and opened her file.

Subject: Blackwood, Freya.

He typed slowly.

Initial exposure produced no destabilization. The subject exhibited an expectation of a psychological response.

He paused.

Then added one more line.

Subject reaction suggests prior success rate.

He leaned back in his chair.

Across the river, the sky had darkened completely.

On his desk, Whitmore’s frozen smile stared back at him.

Reverent.

Broken.

Freya Blackwood had expected him to bend.

He had not.

And somewhere in that reception room, for the briefest second, she had looked almost…

Afraid.

His phone vibrated again.

A new message from the Whitmore case.

Adrian opened it.

Security had found something in the senator’s study.

Carved into the inside of the wooden desk drawer.

Three words.

She chose me.

Adrian’s eyes shifted slowly toward the closed office door.

And for the first time since the investigation began, a thought surfaced that he could not immediately explain.

What if the men had not been unraveling on their own?

What if they had been selected?

And what if he had just been chosen next?