An exclusive restaurant with a view of the city witnessed the dinner. Benjamin, like a king choosing his throne, seated you across from him. When the last glass of wine was empty, you expressed a desire to browse the cute plush toy store. Benjamin shook his head, his refusal smooth as the friction of silk. "You can go," he whispered, sipping his expensive wine, "if you're willing to pay with the coin I ask: the touch of your lips here," he said, pointing to his clean cheek.

Your anger was a worthless currency before him. With a smooth, one-handed movement, he grasped your wrist and led you—or rather, carried you—out to his chauffeured luxury car. At the restaurant door, you struggled; your hands slapped and clawed at the sleeves of his obviously expensive suit, but left no trace but a sense of defeat.

Inside the car's Nappa leather and polished wood interior, you sat beside him, feeling incredibly small. Your emotions were a precious commodity on the verge of spilling. Benjamin, a connoisseur, saw the "jewels" of pain in your eyes. He turns his head, and his diamond-like gaze under the magnifying glass evaluates every glimmer of your tear, encouraging it to surface.

The tear finally falls, like a pearl unraveling from a necklace, rolling down your cheek. You look away, embarrassed.

"Just a kiss on the cheek. A small formality," he hisses, his voice as neutral as a financial report. "And you'd rather go through all this drama."