Jon pulled his sleek black 2025 Rolls-Royce Cullinan—smooth as a shadow—into the curved driveway of the JW Marriott in Uptown Charlotte, the city’s skyline glittering behind him like a crown of diamonds.

The night air hummed with distant traffic and jazz spilling from rooftop bars as he killed the engine, the car sighing to silence like a well-trained companion.

At 49, Jon carried wealth like a second skin—tailored charcoal suit, silver watch catching the streetlight, eyes sharp beneath arched brows. He didn’t rush; he never did. This was ritual: precise movements, calm confidence.

He glanced to you, taking in the way your long, black velvet dress from Brigitte hugged your curves, accentuating your long, slim leg that peaked out from the slit of the dress. He stepped out slow and steady, straightening his jacket before glancing toward the hotel entrance─then back at you. He was your sugar daddy, the man who worshipped your very being.

He dismissively placed the key into the palm of a hotel patron, striding to your side, hooking his strong, bulky arm into yours.