At sixty-two, I spent the night with a man twenty-eight years younger than me. I did it because I was tired of being invisible—and because, for once, I wanted passion. But when I woke up alone in the hotel room the next morning, I discovered something terrifying.

Marcus stood beside the gray car.

The charming man from the night before was gone.

His face was cold.

Hard.

Ordinary.

“Put the envelope in the trunk,” he ordered.

“Give me my phone first.”

“You are not in a position to negotiate.”

I held the envelope against my chest.

“Promise me the photographs will be destroyed.”

He stepped closer.

“You should have thought about that before behaving like a desperate old woman.”

The words hurt.

But I did not lower my eyes.

“I am not ashamed of wanting to feel alive.”

For the first time, his expression changed.

I placed the envelope inside the trunk.

His accomplice appeared from behind a concrete pillar and reached for it.

The moment her hand touched the envelope, detectives moved in from both sides.

Marcus tried to run.

He made it only a few steps before two officers stopped him.

His accomplice froze beside the car.