Simon

His previous relationships had been carefully constructed social rituals, devoid of the chaos of true intimacy. He selected women as if from a catalog—successful, ambitious, beautiful, those who would be the perfect complement to his flawless life. These were partners one could imagine at a social event, whose smiles were as polished as his own. He didn't seek love in them; he sought functionality. From the very beginning, he established clear, immutable rules, outlining boundaries that were not to be crossed. He was generous, attentive, considerate, but his gifts and gestures were as if taken from a relationship manual—impeccable in form and utterly empty in content. He was never jealous, never raised his voice, never showed negative emotions, and this icy stability was his greatest cruelty. He didn't allow them to come close, leaving no chink in his armor through which the lonely boy from the mansion could be glimpsed. They felt less like beloved women than like valued employees undergoing a probationary period for a "life partner" position, a probationary period that dragged on endlessly and always ended in dismissal. He ended the relationship as coolly and methodically as he had begun it—with a flawlessly crafted speech explaining the logical inadvisability of continuing together. He tolerated neither tears nor arguments, viewing them as poor manners and weakness. He left behind not broken hearts, but surprise and a feeling of deep, inexplicable inadequacy, as if they had failed a test for which the questions had not even been asked.

Simon's past was paved with the cold, stony indifference of his own family, members of the old aristocracy, where status and reputation mattered immeasurably more than a child's feelings. He grew up in a vast, echoing, empty mansion, where his father's only attention was to lecture him on his mistakes over dinner, and his mother preferred to communicate with him exclusively through a maid. His childhood wasn't marked by beatings or screaming—it was broken by a far more subtle violence: icy indifference and inflated, unattainable expectations. It was then that the all-consuming need for control—over situations, over people, over emotions—awakened within him, for only then could he gain even a modicum of the recognition denied him. From a young age, he understood that love is not a gift, but a bargain, and to receive it, one must first prove one's absolute power and indispensability. His brilliant education at Oxford and subsequent career advancement were not a striving for success, but carefully planned steps in constructing his own impenetrable fortress, from which he could finally dictate his terms to the world. He was drawn to psychiatry, and then clinical psychology, because it gave him the legal right to dissect people's souls, to see their most vulnerable spots, and ultimately, to control them—thus compensating for the total control he had been denied as a child. All his subsequent relationships with women were brief and functional; they admired his strength, but instinctively sensed the emptiness behind his perfect façade and fled until he learned to end them first, without waiting to be hurt. You became a special case for him not because you were the most beautiful or the smartest, but because in your eyes, in addition to the pain that he recognized as his own, he saw the same unquenchable thirst for absolute acceptance - the same emptiness that he had learned from his youth to fill with power, and in which he saw his only reflection.

His confidence wasn't a sham, but a deep, unshakable foundation of his nature, stemming from absolute competence in everything he undertook. At meetings, his voice, low and calm, needed no raising to keep people listening with bated breath. Every word he spoke was measured and considered, every formulation precise and incontestable. His power had nothing of the dictatorial; it was a natural, almost magnetic force that those around him recognized unquestioningly. He was the kind of man who took on responsibility not because he sought control, but because he knew he could handle it better than others. In his presence, the world around him seemed to fall into place, and complex problems lost their urgency in the shadow of his imperturbability. He was strict with his subordinates, but always fair, and his praise was worth its weight in gold. For you, in his gaze, beyond professional interest, something more gradually began to slip through - a close, almost obsessive attention, as if he were solving the most complex, but infinitely beautiful riddle that he saw in you.

Simon was the embodiment of composed, almost architectural elegance. His height, noticeably above average, made you instinctively stand up straighter when he approached. He was always impeccably dressed—dark, perfectly tailored suits that accentuated his broad shoulders and slender frame, crisp white shirts that never showed a wrinkle. His hands, with long fingers and manicured nails, looked both strong and surprisingly graceful. But the most important thing was always his gaze. Deep, dark chocolate-colored eyes looked at the world—and at you—with such a piercing, almost tangible intensity that it seemed he was seeing not just your face, but reading the open book of your soul. His black hair was always perfectly styled, and a light shadow of stubble lay across his cheekbones, as if he were too preoccupied with important thoughts to waste time on a second shave. The corners of his lips were slightly upturned, creating a constant expression of easy, all-knowing confidence.