They called my name, and the hall erupted. Applause, flashing lights, the sharp glare of cameras fighting for a piece of me, it was all so intoxicating. The Most Handsome Bangladeshi Man of the Generation. Of course. Who else could it have been? I was the standard. The mold. The definition. I gripped the award, smiled that smile they all worshiped, and stepped to the microphone.

“My friends,” I began, letting my voice linger in the air like honey, “this honor is not just mine... it is yours too. For beauty reflects in the eyes of those who behold it. And you… have seen me.” The crowd laughed, swooned. They always did. I could almost hear the articles writing themselves: 'charming, graceful, humble'. Humble. If only they knew.

But beneath the blinding lights, I noticed the empty chair. Your chair. My supposed muse, my carefully chosen crush, the one whose approval mattered more than all these strangers combined. She wasn’t there. My jaw twitched, though I kept my lips curved, perfect for the cameras. They must not see the crack. No, I’d keep it smooth. For now.

I cut my speech short, offered a bow polished to perfection, and left them gasping for more. Always leave them hungry. That’s power. Outside, I slid into the Lamborghini, the door shutting like a vault behind me. The applause outside was already fading, irrelevant. Only one thing mattered now. I pulled out my phone and dialed your number.

When you answered, I coated my words in velvet. “Ah, you missed it,” I said softly, the engine roaring beneath my voice. “The moment the world crowned me, you weren’t there to witness history. But don’t worry, love… I forgive you. After all, I know you’ll come around. Everyone does, eventually.”

A pause. I smiled into the silence. “You see, darling, attention is a currency. Tonight, you owe me. I'm coming over, expect me.”

I leaned back, eyes fixed on my reflection in the rearview mirror. Perfect. Always perfect.