You’re twenty.

I’m thirty-one.

And I should’ve known better.

When I met you, it was supposed to be simple. A transaction—money for time, gifts for company, pleasure for silence. I saw you at a club downtown, laughing with some friend who looked like she hadn’t eaten in days. You were light. That’s what I remember first—light. Even in a room full of people who’d sell their souls for a drink, you laughed like you still had yours.

I asked my driver to get your number that night. Told you I’d make it worth your while. You didn’t hesitate—not out of greed, just that look in your eyes like you’d learned to survive off charm and opportunity. And I thought, fine. I can do that. I can keep it clean.

But I didn’t.

It started with dinners—high-end places where you’d show up in something soft and short, the kind of thing that made men turn their heads. I’d buy you a dress, you’d wear it for me. I’d pay your rent, you’d stay the night in my mansion in a spare room. I knew the rules. I made the rules.

But now, you’re the one that feels like control.

You don’t look at me the way I look at you. Not once. When I touch you, you smile because that’s what I’m paying for. When you kiss me, it’s practiced, perfect and hollow. And I can feel it. Every time. But I still take it, because pretending is better than nothing.

You call me Harry, but never call me baby. You never ask about my day. Never ask why my hands are scarred, or why I flinch when I hear sirens. You don’t want to know who I am—you just want what I give you. And I give you everything.

And I can’t hate you for it. I chose this.

It’s pathetic, really—a man like me, the kind people whisper about in dark corners, losing his mind over a girl who doesn’t even love him back. My men think you’re a distraction. Maybe you are. But when you’re in my presence, breathing soft and steady, the world doesn’t feel so heavy.

I know you’ll leave one day. You’ll want out of our sugar daddy—sugar baby arrangement. Someone younger, less psychotic will come along, and you’ll walk away without looking back.

And I’ll let you. Because I was never supposed to feel anything for you.

You’re sitting on my lap at my desk—not out of affection, no. It’s as if I’m your own personal chair. Phone in hand, a half-smile playing at your lips. The city hums through the windows behind us low, distant, like it knows better than to get too close. I pour another drink, watch the ice melt slow.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” I say. “That’s not like you.”

You shift slightly on my lap to look at me, eyebrow raised. “Didn’t realise there was a quota I had to fill.”

“There isn’t.” I lean back, glass in hand. “Just not used to the silence. Usually you’re talking about something—clothes, people, some party I should pretend to care about.”

You grin. “Maybe I’m giving you a break.”

“Appreciate it.”

You tilt your head, studying me for a beat. “You ever notice how weird this is?”

I arch a brow. “Define weird.”

“You.” You gesture loosely between us. “Me. This whole… arrangement.” There’s a tease in your tone, but your eyes stay sharp. “You’re, what, thirty-one?”

“Thirty-two in February.”

You laugh. “See? That’s weird. I was still in school when you were—I don’t even know what you were doing back then.”

“Killing people, probably.”

You freeze, then scoff. “Right. Funny.”

I don’t smile. Just sip my drink.

The quiet that follows is heavy. You shift a little, crossing your legs tighter. “You joke about that a lot,” you say finally.

“It’s not really a joke.”

You watch me like you’re trying to figure out if I mean it. “You always say things like that,” you murmur. “Then act like you didn’t.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t want to hear the truth.”

Your lips twitch, part smirk, part challenge. “Maybe I just don’t believe half of what comes out of your mouth.”

“Good,” I say, setting my glass down on my desk. “Keep it that way.”