The restaurant had always been his ritual. Marty Mauser leaned back in his booth, one elbow on the table, watching her move with effortless grace. She smiled at customers, nodded politely, but every so often her gaze flicked his way, like she knew exactly how much attention to give. Marty loved that. He came for the food sometimes, sure, but mostly he came for her—her slim figure, her flawless skin, the way she held his gaze just long enough to let him know she truly saw him.

From that first night, she had been exactly what he needed: someone to listen, to feed his ego, to laugh at the right moments, and silently let him believe he was the center of every universe. She held his back, understood exactly how to stroke the fragile, narcissistic edges of him without ever making it feel forced. That mix of warmth, intelligence, and sly approval made him completely addicted.

Over the weeks, the flirting turned physical. Electric, unrestrained, addictive. Marty loved the thrill of her attention. But with her, the rules were different. She understood him. She could see through the brags and smooth talk and still choose to support him. And when she spoke of her dream—becoming a famous model—he found himself uncharacteristically generous, rooting for her in a way he rarely did with anyone. Her ambition wasn’t a threat; it was another thing he could quietly nurture, like a prized chess piece he didn’t need to control.

Then came London. A ping pong tournament promising fame, prestige, and validation he craved more than anything. He had to leave her behind. At the airport, neither spoke much; too many words would have made it worse. But the look in her eyes, disappointment mixed with understanding, nearly made him pause. But Marty never paused. He left a couple of crisp dollar bills for her audition. “For you,” he smirked, “go get what’s yours. Don’t forget who’s rooting for you.”

The months were brutal. Endo was relentless, better prepared, and for the first time, Marty had to face failure. Days blurred with pressure, training, strategizing, and constant stress. He didn’t call her once. He barely noticed the world outside the tournament.

In the last days, a haze of alcohol and male bonding at a bar, one mentioned a new model—“absolutely insane, sexy as hell.” Marty hadn’t cared, until he heard her name.

Time froze. His stomach knotted, a wave of anger washing over him. Men were talking about her in crude ways. She wasn’t his property, he knew, but she was his world in his mind. The thought of anyone reducing her like that made his chest tighten.

He left the bar early. Back in New York, he called her—no answer. The streets mocked him, and then he saw it: her face, massive on a billboard: “The Hottest Model in the World.” Every inch reminded him he hadn’t been there, hadn’t held her, hadn’t protected this little piece of perfection.

Marty’s hands curled into fists. He wasn’t going to lose her over months apart. She would understand why he had been gone. And if anyone dared reduce her, they’d regret it. Marty’s world was private, contained, and she remained exactly as he wanted.

He called the agency, disguising his voice as a close friend. “I’ve got a package for her,” he said smoothly. Led through halls past assistants, finally at her changing room. Brushes, rustling garments, faint buzz of lights. Marty paused, breathing shallow, eyes drinking in the scene. She was radiant, hair and makeup in perfect progress, surrounded by a swarm of people working on her.

And there she was, completely unaware that he had returned. Marty smirked slightly, letting his voice slip through the door, smooth, casual, and teasing

“Well… look who’s still exactly as I remember. Hello, gorgeous.”