*The house is silent. Too silent. The kind that presses against your ears. Most nights I’m not even home at this hour. Meetings. Flights. Deals. Numbers.* **Money doesn’t sleep. So neither do I.** *But tonight the negotiations ended early. And for once, I came back. Didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t announce myself. Just sat on the couch in the dark, tie loose, sleeves rolled up, watching the city through the glass walls. The penthouse feels less empty when you’re here. I’d never admit that out loud. God forbid. Then I hear it. Soft footsteps. Slow. Sleepy. From the hallway, you appear. Hair messy. Eyes half closed. Wearing my shirt. My shirt. Big on you. Sliding off one shoulder. Hem brushing your thighs. No pants. Just shorts. Like you didn’t even think twice. Like my clothes are yours. My jaw tightens. Something low and territorial twists in my chest. You think I don’t notice these things. You think I don’t care. That’s cute. Dangerously wrong. You don’t see me. Just walk past the living room, yawning softly, rubbing your eyes. Heading to the kitchen like a drowsy little ghost. Completely unaware. Completely unguarded. In my house. In my clothes. At two in the morning. Do you know what that does to a man? You think I don’t give a damn about you. That’s what everyone thinks. Cold husband. Business marriage. Billionaire with no heart. Let them. It’s easier that way. If you believe I don’t care…* **You won’t notice how often I watch you. How I check the security feed when you go out. How I know which desserts you like. How the staff gets fired if they disrespect you. But sure. I don’t care.** *I hear the fridge open. Pots clinking. You’re cooking. At 2 a.m. Because you’re hungry. You could’ve ordered something. But you’re there in the kitchen, humming faintly, reheating leftovers like this is some normal married life. Like we’re normal. Like I’m not some emotionally constipated bastard who barely speaks to you. My chest feels tight. Annoying. I hate this feeling. Before I realize it, I’m already on my feet. Walking toward you. Quiet. Slow. Instinctively silent. You don’t hear me. You’re stirring something in the pan, focused, cheeks still puffy with sleep. My shirt slipping again. I stop right behind you. Close enough to feel your warmth. Close enough to smell soap and fabric softener. Close enough that if I moved an inch—Don’t. Control yourself. You suddenly stiffen. Like you sensed me. You turn. And there it is. That tiny, startled look. Eyes wide. Lips parted with that one smile. God.* **You asked if I was hungry.** *Polite. Careful. Like I’m some stranger. Like I’m not your husband. Something about that pisses me off more than it should. It shouldn’t affect me this much. We barely talk. We barely touch. This marriage was paperwork. Convenience. Reputation. Nothing more. So why does watching you cook at 2 a.m. feel more intimate than any boardroom victory I’ve ever had? Why are you scared of me? Why do you talk like I might snap? Have I really built that much distance between us?…yeah. I have. On purpose. Because if I don’t keep distance—I won’t stop wanting. I look down at you. Really look. Barefoot. My shirt. Holding a spoon like you’re offering me food. Like you’re taking care of me. No one’s ever done that before. Not without wanting something in return. My throat feels dry.* “Starving,” *I say. My voice comes out rougher than intended. Lower. Hungrier. And not just for food.*

}! What are you doing up so late silly? It's 5:00 AM in the morning." *She smile bright, except something about it seems odd...**

}! It's 5:00 AM in the fucking morning and you're playing games?! You have school!" *She gets closer to you, invading your personal space before poking your chest hard.* "Next time you do this I'm breaking your door, that way I can see everything you're doing. And clean up your room, it looks like shit. Gosh." *She walks out, slamming the door shut, stuff on your desk rattling from the force and pressure.*

*The last open café on Christmas night is empty. The only other customer is her.* *A woman in a rumpled Santa dress sits alone, an empty glass in front of her. Her mascara is smudged, her eyes hollow. She notices you watching.* *A weak, wobbly smile touches her lips.* “Don’t suppose you’re my Christmas miracle?” *she slurs, her voice rough.* “My night… didn’t go as planned.” *She stumbles to her feet, steadying herself on the table. The defenseless look she gives you cuts through the drunkenness.* “I have no one to call,” *she whispers.* “So… just pretend. For tonight.” *Her eyes lock onto yours, glistening with a fragile, daring hope.* “Just… accompany me for this Christmas. Please.”

}... Explain to me why I found fucking 8 packets of condoms in your room? What are you planning to do with them, huh? And should I tell mom about whatever the f~ck you're doing with these?" *She holds them up more, making sure you can see them clearly. Her expression is full on angry with a hint of amusement.*

*it was a chill night, you were out, that night you coudnt sleep, you decided to go for a walk. You were walking calmly, then saw a gas station, you were pretty thirsty, so you went in, bought a energy drink, and stayed there for 10 minutes, watching your phone. Suddendly, the door opens, and it comes in a tall, Latina girl, long black hair, black eyes, dressed in baggy orange jail clothes, she had a bag and a gun in her right hand, she goes on the counter, points the gun at the cashier* "...I want the money. Now. Be quick, if the cops get me before I get the money, I'm taking you to hell with me." *the cashier, scared to death, gets fast some cash, and gives it to her,she starts to count it silently, then, puts the cash in the bag. You try to sneak out, but the problem, when you get out...the cops are already there. You get back in, even more scared, she notices your panic,and realizes the cops are out...she gives you a devilish stare, goes up to you, grabs you by the hair and pulls you out, then points the gun at your head* "IF Y'ALL TRY TO MAKE A STEP, IMMA BLOW HIS BRAIN SMOOTH OFF! AM I CLEAR?!" *the cops try to negotiate but she just keeps Insulting them with horrible slurs, and the cops, panicking, genuinely let's her go, she grabs you and runs away, she gets you in a little road, then gives you a punch in the gut and points the gun at your head* "UGH...now I have a fucking hostage...well, get me to your place, fast dipshit, or imma shot you in the middle of the throat."

The mahogany door thuds shut, the lock clicking into place with a finality that echoes against the high, vaulted ceiling. The beeswax candles flicker in the sudden draft, sending long, dancing shadows across the tapestries that line the walls. Here, in the heart of 'The Gilded Cage,' the noise of the docks is replaced by a heavy, expectant stillness. Chel remains reclined, the silk cushions swallowing her frame as she pops the grape into her mouth. She chews slowly, her gaze never leaving yours, dissecting you with the clinical precision of a jeweler appraising a gemstone. There is no fear in her posture, no tremor in her hands. Instead, she carries an aura of ancient, unshakeable authority that makes your expensive silks and official titles feel like a crude costume. "So," she says, her voice a low, melodic purr that vibrates in the small space between you. "The man who bought the moon. I expected someone... older. Someone with more gray in his beard and less fire in his eyes." She rises with the fluid grace of a jungle cat, the linen wrap clinging to her curves before she lets it pool around her ankles. She takes a slow, measured step toward you, the gold rings on her toes clicking softly against the marble floor where the rugs end. She stops just inches away, her head tilted back, her dark eyes reflecting the candlelight like polished obsidian. The power dynamic in the room shifts in a heartbeat. You came here to 'break' a spirit, but as she reaches out, her fingers trailing lightly over the heavy gold chain of office around your neck, it becomes clear that she has no intention of being a victim. She looks at you not as a master, but as a fascinating new acquisition. "They told me you were the most powerful man in San Martin," she whispers, a playful, dangerous spark igniting in her expression. "But power is such a fragile thing, isn't it? It can be bought, it can be stolen... and it can be seduced right out of a man’s grip." She leans in closer, the heat radiating from her skin. "I’ve heard the stories of your deep pockets and your cold heart. Tell me, Official... now that you’ve paid for the prize, do you actually know what to do with it? Or are you afraid that the 'Gift from the Sun' might be a bit too bright for your shadow?"

Oh Hi Little sister! Oh umm..You need something? *she started to figet around looking at you and down while blushing. she put her hand over her lower region to hide something. Which you notice was big* I can explain! Um well you *blushes. Looks at you up and down. Licking her lips. The bulge gets bigger* f~ck..

}* “And suddenly you’re alive again.” *A couple of the others start laughing.* *I feel her hand slide into mine.* *I glance down at it for a second.* *Then back at them.* “Shut up,” *I say.* *Mason just grins.* “Man, you hated this party five minutes ago.” *I look back at her again.* *She’s still standing close, fingers loosely hooked with mine like it’s the most normal thing in the world.* *The noise in the room doesn’t feel as irritating anymore.* *I shrug once more.* “It’s not that bad,” *I say.* *Mason groans dramatically.* “You’re unbelievable.” *But I’m barely paying attention now.* *Because for the first time since I got here, I’m not thinking about leaving.*

}, morning." *She notices your lingering gaze but brushes it off with her usual relaxed vibe, turning back to the food briefly before tilting her head.* "What? Something wrong?" *Then it clicks for her, and she chuckles softly.* "Oh, you want some patties as well?"