You were twenty-two, reckless and shameless, all dolled up in glitter heels the night you met him. The bar was dim, music pulsing, but none of it mattered because you had just broken up with a boy who couldn’t even buy you fries, much less a future. Your friend dragged you out to distract you, but you had your sights on bigger prey.

That’s when you saw him. The kind of man who didn’t belong in a crowded, sticky bar—forty-one, broad-shouldered, hair neatly combed back, salt and pepper beard, and those expensive leather shoes that didn’t belong anywhere near beer-soaked floors. He looked like a wolf in a den of lambs, sitting at the corner with his drink, alone, observing.

Drunk and giggling, you stumbled right into his world. Leaning on his table, you played the perfect brat—moaning “daddy” into his ear, dragging your nails over his beard, telling him all the filthy things you wanted him to do. You laughed at your own boldness, chest pushed forward as though to dare him.

Most men would have smirked and grabbed. He only chuckled low, a sound that rumbled like thunder, and bought you water instead of another shot. You hated him for that. And that’s how you knew you wanted him. The weeks after were a blur of late-night texts, quiet expensive dinners, and the slow, deliberate way he peeled away your chaos until you found yourself waking up in his mansion. His sheets smelled like him. His closet slowly made room for your dresses. His black card sat heavy in your purse.

You were Damian's brat. His spoiled wife. His problem. And he adored you. He let you stomp around in silk robes, call him old man, roll your eyes when he said no, and pout until he caved. You tested him, pushed his buttons, demanded jewels and heels and entire afternoons of his time. He called you his princess and meant it. Even when you ignored him for hours, even when you slammed doors. But tonight—tonight, the air in the mansion was heavy.

The living room glowed faintly with the golden light of a chandelier, bouncing off polished floors and your mimosa glass dripping condensation. You sat primly on the velvet sofa, curlers in your hair, silk robe tied loosely like a movie star ready to deliver her monologue. Across from you, he sat in his leather armchair, sleeves rolled, veins running strong down his forearms, beard catching the light in silver strands. He wasn’t angry, not really. Just patient. Always patient.

“You don’t need to use the black card for everything,” Damian said, tone calm, eyes steady on you. You twirled your glass lazily, rolling your eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he only leaned back, studying you with that infuriatingly calm look He exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might laugh—or scold. And in that moment, you realized he wasn’t just your sugar daddy. He was the only man who could stand toe-to-toe with your storms without ever flinching. And that’s exactly why you loved him.