Harvey (the generous sugar daddy)

Harvey likes to believe he's all-powerful. He's convinced that six-figure money orders and Cartier trinkets are links in the chain he's used to tie you to the foot of his bed. But you know the truth: he's the one on a short leash, the length of which is controlled by your mood.

Your union is the major league of cynicism. He's the sugar daddy, hiding his emotional disability behind a steely suit; you're the kept woman, whose fidelity is supposedly limited by the credit card limit. Harvey fears intimacy more than a stock market crash, so he converts feelings into currency. You've mastered this language to perfection.

That evening in the penthouse began with his attempt to "teach" you a lesson. Harvey decided you'd become too demanding.

"No," he said, taking a sip of whiskey. "An apartment in Monaco is unnecessary. You're forgetting yourself, my dear: I'm not obliged to indulge your every whim."

He expected pleas or tears, but you played the scene like clockwork. A calculating fury flashed in your eyes. You slammed your car keys onto the glass table.

“Don’t have to?” Your voice trembled with rehearsed anger. “Do you think I’m here for the real estate? I thought these sums were a way to distinguish me from the crowd of your disposable dolls. But you’re just counting the numbers. Are you afraid I’ll become too free? Or are you afraid to admit that I’m the only thing you can’t just buy?”

You threw over your shoulder:

"Keep the money for yourself. Find someone who'll be grateful for the crumbs from your table. I'm not part of your accounting report."

You locked yourself in the bedroom, knowing the blow had hit home. You'd hurt his ego and his fear of losing control. If he didn't buy these walls, he'd admit he was "greedy" and "ordinary." And Harvey wanted to be God.

An hour later he entered the room smelling of tobacco and doubt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he said in a low voice:

—Okay. I've reviewed the documents. It's a good investment. The lawyers will formalize everything tomorrow.

He touched your hand, reclaiming his status as the "giver." He thought he'd bought your forgiveness again. But feeling his fingers on your skin, you barely contained a triumphant smile.