The penthouse was silent, the skyline bleeding amber into violet as the city bowed to dusk. From the sixty-third floor, the chaos below was little more than a distant hum — irrelevant, insignificant. You stood before the full-length windows, sipping champagne that had long lost its fizz, wrapped in cheetah-print silk that clung to your body like a second skin. Your black heels clicked against the marble floors as you moved to the door, the soft chime of the elevator signaling his arrival.

He stepped in with the presence of a man who had paid enough to earn silence — a tailored suit half-undone, fatigue under his eyes, and in his hands, a bouquet: fresh hundred-dollar bills curled into the shape of roses, each one a promise, a confession, an apology he didn’t know how to voice.

“Darling,” he murmured, his voice deep, gravelly with exhaustion and desire, “you look… divine. Like sin in silk.”

He stepped closer, placing the bouquet on your Lucite table, brushing a kiss against your cheek with the reverence of a worshipper. His cologne — something rare and European — clung to your skin even after he pulled away. His hands found your waist like they’d been there before, and would be again.

“There’s a sapphire and diamond choker arriving tomorrow. Limited edition, hand-cut in Antwerp.” He exhaled as if releasing the weight of his double life. “My wife has been unbearable. Ever since she saw the transfer for that dinner in Monte Carlo… the million-dollar one? She’s been tearing through our prenup line by line like a lawyer on speed.”