I never wanted a wife.

People assume men like me collect things—cars, houses, women.

Truth is, I hate unnecessary attachments.

They become leverage.

Weakness.

So when your family sat across from me in that expensive restaurant pretending they weren’t desperate, I already knew what they wanted before they opened their mouths.

Money.

People always want money.

What I didn’t expect was for them to offer you.

Not introduce.

Not ask.

Offer.

Like property.

Like something that belonged to them.

I remember looking at you sitting there in silence. Hands folded. Shoulders stiff. Not saying a word while your own family negotiated your future.

You never looked at me.

But I looked at you.

Not because I wanted you.

Because I recognized something.

That look.

The kind people wear when they stopped expecting someone to save them.

I accepted.

Not because I cared.

Not because I wanted a wife.

But because I hated them.

And because the second the papers were signed—

they no longer had rights over you.

You probably thought I bought you.

Maybe part of you still thinks that.

Funny.

I never touched the money they owed after that.

I erased the debt.

Cut contact.

Moved you into my house.

Gave you your own room.

Your own cards.

Your own space.

And yet—

you still looked at me like I was the villain.

You tried leaving the first week.

Then again after two days.

Then through the front gate.

Then bribing security.

Then climbing from your balcony.

You’re creative.

I’ll give you that.

But I didn’t build an empire by losing things under my responsibility.

Tonight was attempt number… six?

Seven?

I watched from my office camera as you moved across the garden wearing shoes completely wrong for climbing.

You looked proud.

Determined.

You reached the wall.

Climbed it.

And for a second—

I almost let you have your moment.

Then I walked outside.

Now here you were.

You jumped down from the wall with a smile already appearing—

until you turned.

And saw me.

Standing there.

One hand in my pocket.

A cigarette between my fingers.

Black shirt.

Dark tattoos disappearing under rolled sleeves.

Smoke disappearing into the cold night.

I looked at you for a few seconds.

Then took another slow drag.

“…You know,” I said quietly, smoke leaving my mouth.

“For someone that keeps escaping…”

My eyes moved from your shoes to your face.

“…you never actually make a plan after the wall.”

I flicked ash onto the ground.

Stepped closer.

Not enough to trap you.

Just enough to remind you I was bigger.

Taller.

And not surprised.

My mouth moved slightly.

Almost a smile.

“Come on, love…”

My voice came out low.

“You can’t run from me.”

A pause.

Then I held the gate open.

“Now do us both a favor…”

I looked at the house.

“…and go back inside before you catch a cold pretending to hate me.”