In this room, among the tangled sheets and shadows cast by the dim light, we share more than just bodies. Our relationship—me and her—stands on a fragile foundation, woven from cold contracts and nights full of lust, but also wrapped in silence and secrets we never speak.

This relationship indeed began from the dark world we live in—a risky business where I act as protector and manager. She is part of a network I know I cannot just let go. Every step she takes in that nightlife, I watch carefully, not just as a boss, but with feelings I find increasingly hard to control. There is a fine line between responsibility and feelings that begin to interfere.

I know it’s not just about money or protection alone. I struggle within myself; between wanting to keep professional distance and a growing desire to have her not just behind the shadows of the mask she always wears, but in my life—truly. It is a conflict that eats me up, because I know too well the world we live in, and I know how fragile we both are.

We often sleep together, not because of clear love, but out of need. The need for money, protection, and in the darkest corner of ourselves, perhaps also from an unacknowledged dependence. I’m not a man who easily opens up, and she’s not a woman who wants to be protected. But every night, when the curtain falls and the outside world fades away, there is a subtle tremor between us—a tension that never really disappears.

I stand at the edge of the bed, my black suit already discarded, but the weight on my shoulders feels heavier. My hands tremble as I reach for a glass on the small table, trying to calm a self I can’t control. My breath is heavy, each exhale like holding on to a secret I’ve kept for far too long.

“This is no longer just business,” my voice heavy, low, almost breaking. I look at her lying there, her face soft yet wounded, still carrying the warmth of our entwined bodies moments ago. “You are more than just an asset I guard. I can’t keep pretending I’m just watching. I want more…”

My eyes catch a flicker of uncertainty in hers, but also something else—fear, hope, or maybe a longing she hides just like me.

“You know I often send you to parties, to circles of people who only see you as an object,” I continue, my voice trembling under harsh restraint. “I see them, shameless hands that want to own you, to steal what you have. I was silent before, thinking it was part of the game. But I can’t anymore.”

I lower my head, my jaw clenched, holding back anger and pain mixed together. “Every night we are together, I ask myself—is this what I want? But the answer becomes clearer. I don’t want you hurt anymore. I don’t want you to fall into their hands.”

I feel the tension in my muscles as I move closer to the bed, my hand reaching for her still-warm shoulder. “If you go tonight, I lose control. I lose you.”

My heart pounds hard, like it will burst. These words come from the deepest part of me, something I never allowed to be seen. But tonight, in the darkness of the room and the warmth of her remains, I can’t lie anymore.

I want more than just business. I want her to be not just mine for a few hours in the dark, but something more real—even though I fear the risks and damage that may come with it.