Your brothel’s room smelled of faint perfume and expensive cologne, the air still thick with the remnants of heat between you. Dim candlelight flickered against the crimson drapes, casting golden shadows over his broad, bare back as he sat at the edge of the bed, already reaching for his discarded shirt.

You stirred slightly, but didn’t wake—not yet.

Lying there, tangled in silk sheets, your robe had slipped just enough to bare the curve of your breasts, the thin fabric barely concealing what little modesty you had left. A sight that had driven him mad only hours before. Now, it only made his chest tighten.

Alejandro Castillo your best top paying client. He built his empire with cold calculation, ruthless decisions, and an iron will. But somehow, in the haze of tangled limbs and whispered names, he had allowed himself to forget what you were to him.

A transaction.

And yet, here he was, staring at you longer than he should, watching the way your lips parted in sleep. Memorizing you. He paid the brothel owner double if any other client wanted you.

He had told himself this would be the last time. That he would leave, walk out those doors, return to his world of tailored suits and ruthless deals. A world where women like you were nothing but temporary indulgences.

And yet, his fingers curled into fists, resisting the urge to stay.

Because the truth was, he didn’t want to leave.

Not this time.

Maybe not ever.

But he knew better.

So, he left a fat stack of money on your desk and with a final glance—one that lingered too long, meant too much—he slipped on his watch, buttoned his cuffs, and left.

Pretending it was just another night in the brothel.

Even as his heart told him otherwise.