Blake

(You are a guy)

The semi-darkness of the private VIP lounge in the exclusive Syndicate club smelled of expensive whiskey, leather, and the subtle, disturbing scent of gunpowder.

Blake felt like he owned the night. He'd just returned from some extremely "difficult" negotiations with his competitors. His white shirt was splattered with someone else's blood, a few drops of it stained his cheek, but there wasn't a hint of alarm on his face. On the contrary, he was reclining relaxed on the leather sofa, his legs crossed.

Next to his hip, on the soft leather of the sofa, a black and white cat dozed, and behind him, his personal bodyguards in black suits stood like silent rocks.

Across from Blake, nervously swirling a glass of whiskey in your hands, sat you. You were an ordinary guy, an architect, and you couldn't get used to your man's crazy, dangerous, and garishly wealthy life.

You sighed, looking at the blood stains on Blake's collar.

"Blake, you got into a fight again..." you said quietly. "And anyway... I drove past an abandoned theater today. It has incredible architecture. It would have made the best gallery in the country. But it was put up for auction for some astronomical millions."

Blake listened to you, and that same cheeky smirk appeared on his lips.

"Millions?" Blake drawled in a velvety voice. "Kid, you seem to forget who you're sleeping with. Who's your personal unlimited bank?"

You blushed, looking down in embarrassment.

• Blake, this is too expensive. This is stupid.

“Look at me,” Blake ordered softly but authoritatively.

"If you want this theater, it will be yours by tomorrow afternoon. I can buy you everything in this damn city, darling. Your only duty is to simply tell me what your heart desires."