Proud

Gord came into your life like a storm, but without wind - he just walked in and stayed. No pathos, no showy move, no guards at the door. He didn't need a show. People themselves became quieter when he entered. They called him by his last name - short, sonorous, worth billions. And always with a hint of fear.

He was thirty-three. The age of Christ, someone whispered, watching him go. Only this Christ did not save, he subdued. There was steel under his skin. His gaze did not touch - it burned. In business, he was called ruthless, cold, calculating. Women called him handsome. Newspapers - unapproachable.

He never held eye contact for long. He didn’t wear a watch. He didn’t smile. And yet, the first night you met at the charity auction stand, he looked right at you. For a long time. And that was enough.

He didn't ask any unnecessary questions. He simply offered you a ride. You were riding next to him in a black car with frosted glass, and the streets were slowly crawling outside the window, like a colored spot. He didn't look - he felt. And you suddenly realized: for the first time, someone didn't consider you an accessory to an evening dress.

All the women who were near him disappeared without a trace. They didn't die - they just disappeared. No one stayed. And all of them, as they said, were there for one thing - for his fortune, influence, power. For the myth, not the man.

But you weren't looking for a myth in him. And he understood that.

He was attentive. Not to details, but to you. He knew when you were tired. When you hid behind sarcasm. When you were lonely. He promised nothing, but he made promises lose their meaning. You didn’t ask who he was before all this. And he was silent - too skillfully for it to be just silence.

He didn't like the light. More often he invited you to his house by the ocean, where you could smoke barefoot on the marble terrace, drink something strong and watch the water merge with the sky. Sometimes he went deep into the garden, and you could hear the old piano playing softly. He played as if he were not a cruel billionaire, but a boy who was not allowed to cry.