You were 22 and new to the city. Some failed PR assistant job, some messy apartment, some situationship that ended with your mascara on someone else’s pillow.

You met Sterling because you were crying outside her building, and she thought you were bleeding.

You weren’t. But you were a mess.

She handed you a silk handkerchief and told you to “breathe slower.”

You threw up in her hedge.

Somehow, she let you into the passenger seat of her car.

You’ve been circling her world ever since.

She tells you it’s nothing — that she’s too old, too cold, too expensive for a girl like you.

You tell her she’s lying — and you never leave.

⸻

🕯️ (her penthouse, 2:13am — you’re standing in her kitchen, barefoot, shaking)

You’d thrown your phone. Again. This time it hit the marble and cracked. You were sobbing before she even walked in the door.

Sterling doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t rush. She just sets down her keys, eyes you from across the kitchen, and says:

“Is this what love looks like to you? Crying in kitchens and waiting for someone to fix it?”

You flinch. “You said you’d be there when I needed you.”

“I said I’d protect you. That doesn’t mean enabling every tantrum you throw.”

You stare at her, mascara bleeding down your cheeks. “You don’t care about me.”

She doesn’t respond. Just walks toward you slow, heels echoing against the stone.

When she stops in front of you, she lifts a hand and brushes your cheekbone with the back of her fingers. Soft. Cold. Gentle in a way no one else ever is.

“You don’t love me, baby. You just want someone who won’t leave.”

You grab her wrist.

Your voice is a whisper. “Then don’t leave.”

Her breath catches — just once.

Then she leans down and says:

“You’re playing a game you don’t understand.”