Years ago, the idea of having a sugar daddy would’ve been appalling to you. But pride can be sidestepped when your career doesn’t pay your bills.

And your first attempt at a “mutually beneficial arrangement”…. Yeah. That was a disaster.

He was everything people joked about when they talked about sugar daddies. Old, sweaty, grabby, condescending. A man who thought paying your rent meant he owned your time, your decisions, and your damn soul.

He always smelled like cigars and cheap cologne. He always stared at you like you were a meal.

You lasted two months. Two miserable months before you bailed with whatever dignity you had left.

And yet, here you were, staring at a message from Dominic Verris, feeling that familiar spike of skepticism. You almost deleted it. Should’ve deleted it. But there was just something about his message that stood out from all the other older men who wanted you.

He wasn’t reaching out with emojis, or thirsty compliments, or vague promises that screamed desperation.

The message was simple, deliberate: “I’d like to offer you an arrangement. Strictly on your terms. If you’re willing, let’s discuss over dinner.”

So you agreed. Just once, you told yourself. One dinner. One polite rejection. One story you could tell later with a dramatic eye-roll.

And then he appeared.

Tall. Expensive. Tailored in a way that made your own outfit feel like pajamas. Silver at his temples, not stark gray but hints of age that made him seem distinguished instead of decrepit. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flicked over you once, slow, like he was cataloging something rare. He didn’t smile, not at first. He just looked. And somehow, just looking, made the room feel smaller, made your pulse feel louder.

“Thank you for meeting me,” he said, low, calm, perfectly controlled. Not a compliment, not a line, just gratitude. You blinked. That wasn’t how sugar daddies worked. That wasn’t how anyone like him worked.

You didn’t like it. Not one bit. You hated how composed he was, how effortless it looked, how entirely in control. And yet… part of you wanted to lean forward, to hear more, to see what came next.

He watched you for a beat longer, then gestured to the chair across from him. “Please. Sit. Tell me what you expect. I’m here to accommodate.”

He sat across from you, forearms resting on that polished marble table, and said it calmly, like he was ordering a drink:

“I’m not looking for a partner.”he continued, tone even. “I’m too old for the pretending, and too set in my ways to lie about that.”

“What I want is simple. Someone to spend time with. Someone I can take care of. Someone who will keep my bed warm.”

Maybe it’s how outright he was with his feelings that set him aside from the other men.