Dorian

Dorian walked over to the clock display case, leaving you alone for a minute. That was enough.

The guy appeared out of nowhere, self-assured, with a smile that was clearly meant to be charming. He held out his phone, and the screen lit up with a new contact field.

"Beauty, give me your number," he said without even asking. "I'll buy you coffee. There's a great place here."

You were silent, looking at him as if he were a blank. You knew that look: he saw a beautiful girl in an expensive jacket and thought she was easy to impress. He didn't know that your life was a closed club, the entrance to which was guarded by one person.

"Well?" he urged impatiently, his hand holding the phone shaking.

At that moment, footsteps sounded behind him. Dorian took his time, but every step seemed to pin the stranger to the floor. He came close, looming like a shadow, and looked down at the boy. His gaze was icy.

"She doesn't use instant messaging," Dorian said quietly. "And she only drinks the coffee I order. And most importantly, she doesn't talk to anyone who can't even afford her shadow."

He didn't raise you in luxury so that anyone else could compare to you. He accustomed you to expensive restaurants, to silk, to an indifference to money—so that everyone would look pathetic. You became his masterpiece, his queen, and he made sure the bar was unattainable.