Chapter 4
The room always smelled the same—leather, old cologne, and the faint ghost of perfume from the women who'd passed through.
My sanctuary felt like an echo chamber: big, immaculate, and unbearably empty.
I stood by the floor-to-ceiling window and watched the city hum—a lattice of lights below that meant nothing.
Power didn't keep you warm.
It only made the cold more comfortable.
I picked up my phone and scrolled until a name caught my eye—a girl I'd met at a gathering two nights ago.
Pretty enough. Loud enough. Reckless in the way only bored people can be.
I dialed.
She answered after the second ring, breathless and bright.
"Hello?"
"Come over," I said.
The words were a command; I liked that they worked.
She arrived ten minutes later, hips swaying, laughter rehearsed.
She moved like she believed the room belonged to her—like every man around her owed her worship.
She stepped inside, closed the door, and turned to me with the kind of smile that was both invitation and performance.
"How cheap," I murmured, more to myself than to her.
She laughed as though I had complimented her. "You called me."
I didn't move from the window.
"Sit down."
She perched on the edge of the sofa, fingers playing with the hem of her dress as if she were tuning an instrument.
She came closer as if to seduce—slow and practiced—but I shook my head.
"No," I said.
The refusal tightened the air between us. She blinked, confused.
"I thought—" she began softly.
"You thought we'd make love?" I finished for her, amused by the predictability of it.
"Are you that cheap? Honestly… I'm not surprised. Eves have different versions. Maybe you're the cheapest version of Eve."
Her face changed—hurt and fury in a single breath.
She was young, and I was cruel, and the two combined made something small and sharp inside me feel alive.
She straightened, voice trembling but proud. "I can be many things, Michael. I thought you were different."
"So did everyone," I said flatly. "But I was wrong too. You'd make a good bedtime story. All noise, no meaning."
She flinched.
I smirked. "How much will you charge to talk all night?"
She blinked. "Talk? You want me to—?"
"To talk. Not touch. Just talk. You'll pretend to be a parrot. Say whatever you think will make me listen, and I'll pay you. Two-fifty."
I named the number like it was a prescription for loneliness.
She laughed—short, incredulous. "I thought you'd want to make love."
"That's what most of you think."
I turned, finally meeting her eyes. "But tonight, I need noise. I need someone to drown out the silence because I'm too tired to face it."
She hesitated, then nodded. Maybe the money mattered.
Maybe the illusion of being wanted mattered more.
So she started talking.
She told me about a cousin who married a man for his car, about a boyfriend who left because she refused to move to his city, about the night she burned dinner and lied about it.
Her voice was bright and unfiltered—nonsense stitched together with confidence.
She laughed at her own tragedies and watched me for reaction like a performer testing the audience.
I lay on the couch, my suit jacket off, and listened.
Her voice filled the apartment—filling, filling—until the edges of my irritation smoothed into something drowsy.
The chatter worked like medicine.
I slept.
It wasn't unusual; I'd slept beside strangers more times than I could count.
Sleep was my withdrawal, my escape from the muscle memory of abandonment.
While she babbled like an overexcited radio, I closed my eyes and let the darkness pull me under.
When morning came, the light was thinner, the city quieter.
I opened my eyes to see her lying on the rug, cheeks hollowed by sleep, one arm flung over her face.
She looked absurdly peaceful—too peaceful for someone who'd been told this was nothing but a transaction.
I rolled over and checked the clock. Six a.m.
The agreement had been clear. She was my alarm.
She'd been paid to talk until six and wake me. Instead, she'd dozed off.
I nudged her shoulder. "Didn't I tell you to talk until six? You were supposed to be my alarm. Instead, I found you sleeping."
She blinked, flustered. "I talked until four, Michael. I talked until four…"
"Four?"
I sat up, irritation sharpening. "That was the point. You were hired to be loud until six—not to nap through your shift."
She stammered apologies, voice small.
I reached for my wallet, the motion mechanical, and pulled out the cash.
I tossed it toward her in a loose arc—two-fifty in bills skittering across the rug.
She scrambled to pick them up, fingers trembling as she counted. For a moment there was something like gratitude—messy, human—before she tucked the bills into her bag.
"Reduce the way you mistreat women," she said suddenly, voice low but steady.
She had the nerve to meet my eyes. "One day—you'll meet your match."
I laughed—cold and short. "They haven't been born yet," I said.
"There isn't a woman alive capable of matching me. Maybe in courage, maybe in pain—but not in what I've become."
She held her chin high, pride and disgust mixed in her gaze.
"I pity you," she whispered. "You destroy everything that tries to love you."
I smiled faintly. "That's the only way to keep love from destroying me first."
She left, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
The silence that followed felt almost like applause.
---
I dressed for work as usual.
By the time I arrived, the mask was back—the ruthless CEO everyone respected and feared.
One of my few hobbies, if it could be called that, was visiting the children's section of my company.
The daycare was filled with laughter, tiny hands, and innocent faces.
Children never lied. Children never pretended.
They hadn't yet learned betrayal.
I crouched beside a boy no older than five.
His curly hair bounced as he turned toward me, eyes bright with trust.
"Don't let your mum leave without a good reason," I told him quietly.
He blinked. "My mum won't leave my dad. She loves him."
A bitter smile tugged at my lips. "They all say that. But they all leave eventually."
His little face fell, confusion clouding his eyes.
I stood abruptly and walked away. I didn't belong in their world of giggles and hugs.
By the time I reached my office, I'd buried the guilt.
My secretary greeted me, heels clicking on the marble floor.
"Coffee," I ordered without looking up.
Moments later, she placed it on my desk.
I looked at her—the exhaustion in her eyes, the tremor in her hands.
Something in her expression screamed desperation.
"Who's the father of your child?" I asked suddenly.
Her hands froze. She swallowed hard. "He abandoned us."
I leaned back and laughed, the sound echoing coldly across the office.
"Then he's a smart man. He played the game before you even learned the rules. Checked you before you could check him."
Her face crumpled—disappointment and shame.
"Excuse me, sir," she whispered. "Can I go?"
I waved my hand lazily. "You can go. And while you're at it, pass through hell and check if my mother's doing fine."
I burst out
laughing at my own cruel joke.
She flinched, eyes glistening, and walked out without another word.
Was I a bad man?
No.
Just a man who learned mercy dies first.