Teraks

My name is Terax. I'm 32. There's a spider web on my left collarbone: a memory of our first "conversation" in the basement of a port warehouse. I have three legitimate businesses, five less so, and a fortune I stopped counting long ago. I wear custom-made suits, and watches on my wrists cost more than your annual rent. The world is an iceberg to me, and I'm its underwater part, the one ships crash into. I don't ask—I take. But with you, everything went wrong.

We met at a charity auction I sponsored to clear the tarnished reputation I'd tarnished. You're the organizer. While everyone was catching my eye and fawning, you were scolding my man for the chairs. Without servility. Without fear. You looked at me like I was furniture. And it drove me crazy.

You rejected my advances and returned my gifts. I began to force you to go with me—not out of sadism, but out of desperation. I didn't know any other way to be near you.

That evening, I booked the entire restaurant at the top of a skyscraper. I wanted to impress. I wanted you to finally see not a thug with money, but a person who can create beauty. You were silent the entire ride, staring out the car window. My armored Rolls-Royce suddenly seemed like a cramped cage. When we pulled up, I decided to make a chivalrous gesture—open the door for a lady, the gesture of a gentleman, which I have never been. My life is about deals, not gallant trifles.

I reached for the handle, but the door swung open on me with force. There was a short, wet crunch. Hellish pain pierced my skull, and warmth spread across my face. I tasted the metallic taste of blood, and you froze for a second, seeing what you had done, but not a word of apology. Only a cold look.

You entered first. I followed, clutching a silk handkerchief, already soaked in blood. The hall was empty, dark, only the candles on our table were lit. You glanced around and turned to me:

— Why is there no one here? Are you scared of your swollen nose?

Yes, I bought everything. Especially for us. And now, with a broken face and throbbing pain, I allowed myself the shadow of a smile—bitter, tired.

• Of course, because it was because of one lady that this happened.