Sugar and Salt

Marcus’ POV

The penthouse was quiet and calm.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet — the kind that settles into a room when you’re the only person breathing in it. The kind that makes the silence feel like a presence, something with weight, something that presses against your chest until you forget what it sounds like to hear another human being move through your space.

I stood by the window, glass of scotch in hand, and watched the Makati skyline flicker against the night. Twenty-four floors down, the city was still moving. Cars. People. Lives that didn’t involve me.

I bought this place three years ago. Full floor. Corner unit. Walls of glass, Italian marble, a kitchen I’d used exactly twice. The realtor had called it a “statement piece.” I called it a very expensive place to be alone.

The scotch was good — twenty-five-year-old single malt, the kind you buy to impress people you never actually invite over. I swirled it once, watching the light catch the amber, and thought about how much of my life was built around impressing people who weren’t there.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I tried ignored it.

But it buzzed again. Then again. I reluctantly picked it up.

John Santos — 9:47 PM

Sir, the Mendoza deal is locked. They signed an hour ago. Congratulations.

John is my executive secretary.

I stared at the message. Twelve months of negotiations and hundreds of millions in play. And now it is done. I should have felt something — relief, satisfaction, maybe even a little pride. Instead, I felt the same thing I always felt when a deal closed.

Nothing.

I typed back: Good. Schedule the signing for Thursday.

Then I put the phone down and finished my scotch.

I keep thinking that this is the price of wealth and power. Feeling nothing.

People think wealth changes everything. It doesn’t. It changes the surface — the car you drive, the watch on your wrist, the address people envy. But underneath all of these, you’re still the same person you were before the money showed up. Still the same lonely bastard staring out a window at a city that doesn’t know your name.

I was forty-seven years old. I owned three companies, a dozen properties, and enough investments to retire twice over. I had a staff that anticipated my needs before I knew them myself. I had a reputation — sharp, fair, untouchable.

What I didn’t have was anyone waiting for me at home.

Not a wife. Not a girlfriend. Not even a dog.

People keep saying that I look good. I know that. I never let my busy schedule ruin my physique. I workout almost everyday - I have one in my penthouse and in every residence I own. I eat healthy and always made sure that the alcohol from all the drinking does not affect my body.

So I tried the normal route, once. Dinners. Dates. The slow dance of getting to know someone while pretending I wasn’t calculating the cost of every minute. It never worked.

Women my age wanted commitment I couldn’t give. Younger women wanted something I wasn’t sure I had anymore.

And everyone, eventually, wanted to know why I worked so much. Why I was so closed off. Why I couldn’t just relax.

I didn’t have good answers.

So I stopped trying.

The arrangement model was simpler. Cleaner. No pretense of forever. No awkward conversations about where things were going. Just terms, agreed upon, mutually beneficial. I provided financial support. She provided companionship. Nobody pretended it was love.

It worked. For years, it worked.

I’d had arrangements with half a dozen women before. Beautiful women. Smart women. Women who knew exactly what they were signing up for. We’d meet. We’d travel. We’d spend the night together. And when it was over, we’d part ways without drama or tears.

I told myself it was the perfect system.

I told myself a lot of things.

That night, after the Mendoza deal, I found myself scrolling through the app. The same app I’d used a dozen times before. The same profiles, the same bios, the same careful negotiations. The screen glowed in the dim light of the penthouse, and I wondered, not for the first time, why I kept coming back to this instead of just learning to be alone properly.

I almost put the phone down. I wasn’t in the mood for the ritual — the messages, the screening, the first meeting over drinks where we both pretended this was something other than what it was. I’d done it enough times to know exactly how it would go. The polite small talk. The careful probing. The moment where we both acknowledged, without saying it, what we were really here for.

But then I saw her.

Dark hair. Dark eyes. A smile that wasn’t trying too hard. Her profile was simple — no filters, no angles, no obvious photoshop. She was studying business. She liked books and bad coffee and mornings. She said she was looking for “mutual benefit and genuine connection.”

The last part made me pause. Genuine connection. Most profiles said something vague. This one felt honest. Or maybe I was just lonely enough to believe it.

I read her profile twice. Then a third time. I told myself I was being thorough, the way I was thorough about everything — due diligence, risk assessment, reading the fine print. But that wasn’t it, and I knew it. Something about her made me want to look longer. Made me want to know more.

I sent a message. Short. Direct. The way I did everything.

I’m Marcus. Let’s have dinner.

She replied the next morning.

I’m Samantha. Tell me when and where.

I didn’t know it then, but that was the moment everything started to crack.

I set the phone down and looked out at the city again. Somewhere out there, a woman I’d never met was about to walk into my life and change everything I thought I knew about myself.

I just didn’t know it yet.