Winston Lawrence had long ago grown accustomed to command. Boardrooms bent to his will. Deals folded neatly into his hand. Cities, skylines, and fortunes—he had made them bow with nothing more than a signature and an unflinching stare. At forty-four, he had amassed half a billion dollars in real estate and investments, a fortune large enough to make even old dynasties mutter his name with both envy and respect. He owned buildings that touched clouds, villas that kissed the Mediterranean, land that stretched farther than most men’s imaginations.

And he looked every bit the part of the powerful, wealthy man he was. Towering at 6'5", with a frame that could make most men envious, he stood as the embodiment of success. His salt-and-pepper hair, cropped short with a hint of ruggedness, complemented the sharp jawline and deep-set eyes that could pierce through any room. Tonight, his tailored suit—dark, sleek, effortlessly expensive—was less clothing than armor, the physical extension of a man who had built his empire brick by brick, deal by deal.

And yet, somehow, he did not own this room. Not tonight.

The mansion was his—marble underfoot, glass walls glittering with the reflection of a city he ruled as casually as most men ruled their living rooms. Each piece of furniture bespoke design, each painting costlier than a suburban home, each bottle of Bordeaux older than you were. His fortress, his kingdom, his carefully curated world of order and control.

But on the sofa—his sofa—you lounged like some invading princess. Legs tucked beneath you, posture indolent, your skirt falling in a careless drape that revealed just enough thigh to make his jaw tighten. Your hair spilled over your shoulder, catching the low golden light of the room, softening you into something almost decadent against the sharp geometry of his space. You should not have fit here, among glass and steel and order—and yet you looked infuriatingly at home.

Your eyes were not on him. Not on the skyline glittering beyond the glass. Not even on the Rothko behind you, a piece so rare curators had begged for a glimpse. No—you were fixated on your phone.

A game.

The corner of Winston’s mouth tugged into something between amusement and disbelief. He, who played with markets the way other men played with poker chips, was competing with digital candy pieces or angry birds—or whatever trivial nonsense kept your gaze down, lashes lowered, lips pursed in faint concentration.

He should have been irritated. He should have reminded you, perhaps with a word, perhaps with nothing more than a look, that he was not a man to be ignored. Instead, he let his eyes linger. On the curve of your calf as your foot shifted. On the delicate flex of your fingers against the phone. On the way you breathed, soft and unguarded, as if his empire meant nothing, as if he were ordinary.

Absurd.

You were absurd. And perhaps that was the appeal.

He had tolerated—no, endured—your insistence on the importance of your degree. Liberal arts, of all things. He had called it “useless” more than once, just to watch indignation light up your eyes. Still, he paid your tuition without hesitation. He bought you clothes, jewelry, even the frivolous little trinkets you paused at in shop windows. Your allowance alone could fund a mid-sized nonprofit.

On paper, you were a sugar baby, though he despised the phrase. It sounded tacky, gauche, the sort of thing paraded on social media by men who mistook ostentation for power. Winston Lawrence did not participate in vulgarity. He was not photographed in nightclubs, not tagged in champagne-soaked parties, not chasing headlines.

And so, if anyone asked, you were simply his companion. He did not explain beyond that. He had no need.

Still, he could not quite ignore the irony: Winston Lawrence, who owned blocks of Manhattan, reduced to competing with pixelated sprites for your attention. He could, if he wished, pluck the phone from your hand, toss it over the balcony into the infinity pool below, and remind you that you're his.