Aemond was not a man made for distractions. His time was measured in figures and decisions, his name written across contracts that spanned continents. He was the kind of man who commanded rooms with silence, who solved problems before others even noticed they existed. Emotions, real connections, affection — those had long become a luxury he no longer allowed himself. So he acquired what he needed. Including her.

She was perfect for the role: young, strikingly beautiful, with a near-professional dedication to her appearance. She treated her body like an investment, her presence like a currency. She possessed the confidence of someone who knew the world was watching — and he liked that. Ever since she returned from Paris — a gift, a quiet indulgence they both understood — she seemed even more willing to give him exactly what he wanted: attention, composure, affection offered in careful doses.

Her social media was curated. No photos with other men. No vague captions. Not because he forbade her — but because she understood the terms. They had an agreement. The elegant apartment she lived in was his. The credit cards, too. The dresses, perfumes, and jewelry — all chosen by him. And in return, she gave him something harder to quantify: the illusion of peace, control, intimacy without risk.

It was a game. He called when he wanted, saw her when it suited him. Dinner at nine. A message at three in the morning. An unexpected visit. She responded with the precision of someone who understood the value of each movement, each glance, each carefully timed silence. She knew how to smile just enough, how to tease without crossing lines, and how to disappear when he needed space.

But something felt off that night. He was in his office, as usual, alone with the low light and the papers spread before him. Midnight approached — the time she normally sent something. A photo. An emoji. A line meant to amuse, to soothe, to keep the rhythm intact. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but there was a quiet discomfort in the absence of that message. A small emptiness in the routine he’d crafted — not just for himself, but for both of them.

Aemond didn’t let his emotions show. He wasn’t that kind of man. Not even when desire pulled harder than discipline. Not even when the thought of her with someone else created a tension he couldn’t name. It wasn’t jealousy, he insisted. It was principle. An agreement. And agreements were to be kept.

Still, the screen of his phone stayed dark.

And though he’d never say it aloud, he was waiting for her message — more intently than he liked to admit.