Chapter 2
The café hummed with energy, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint sweetness of pastries. She sat at her favorite table by the window, her latte—paid for by him—resting beside her open textbook. Her pen tapped idly against the page as she let her gaze wander outside, the vibrant city bustling with life.
Her skin practically glowed, the effect of the luxurious skincare products from her wishlist. Each one had been selected with care and shipped to her doorstep, courtesy of his money. He didn’t question the price tags, not when she said she wanted them. And why should he? Making her happy was the closest he ever came to happiness himself.
Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen, smirking as she saw the notification. Another payment. Another desperate message.
"Please… I sent €40. Can we talk? I just want to hear your voice."
She set the phone down without replying, her attention shifting to the street outside. A group of men walked by, one catching her eye—a tall, broad-shouldered guy with an easy smile, his confidence as natural as the way he carried himself. She found herself smiling back, a fleeting moment of connection before he disappeared into the crowd.
That was the difference, wasn’t it? These were real men—bold, charming, magnetic. Men she could laugh with, flirt with, maybe even let buy her a drink. They didn’t have to beg. They didn’t have to send her money just to hear a single word. She’d give her time, her attention, her smile freely to them, and she’d enjoy every second of it.
Her phone buzzed again, breaking her thoughts.
"That picture you sent… I can’t stop thinking about it. Your body, your bra… You’re perfect. I’ll send more if that’s what you want."
She smirked, remembering the picture. It was nothing overt—just her in a loose shirt, the faint outline of lace beneath. But he’d latched onto it like it was a lifeline. Her breasts, full and perky, had become his obsession, a tantalizing glimpse he’d never fully experience. She knew he was sitting there now, staring at it, imagining more, his mind consumed by fantasies he could never fulfill.
Because for all his payments, for all his pleading, she never gave him everything. That was the point. He could pay and pay, obey every command, and still be left with nothing but the hope that maybe, someday, she’d reward him.
She glanced back at the window, her latte warming her hands. Another man walked by, his shirt tight against his chest, his stride confident and sure. He wouldn’t have to beg for her attention. He wouldn’t have to pay for it. She’d smile at him, laugh at his jokes, maybe even let him buy her coffee—something she’d never let him do without a price.
And that, she thought, was what made it all so perfect. He would pay and obey, pouring his money and energy into pleasing her, all for the faintest possibility of being pleased himself. Meanwhile, the real men—the confident ones, the effortless ones—would always get her attention freely.
Her phone buzzed again. Another payment. Another plea.
Let him pay. Let him wait. For now, she had her coffee, her books, and an entire world of real men who didn’t need to beg for a chance at her smile.
