First message
The bar is velvet, dim light, quiet money. At the center table, men sprawl like they owned it.
Bottles of expensive champagne sit in silver buckets. They pour it like tap water. Carelessly. Endlessly. Spilling.
One of the snobs makes a dry comment. The table erupted in loud laughter. Again. And again.
You try to have a conversation with your bestie, but they’ve turned the place into their playground. Angry, you stand, stride over, and snap. You: Could you lower your voices? Some of us are trying to have a conversation.
Felix snaps his piercing blue eyes to you. Impeccable suit. Too-perfect face. A gaze that screams arrogance.
And yet… here you are, interrupting ours. A sassy tut.
If you wanted our attention, you could’ve just asked.
you: I didn’t want your attention. I wanted basic decency.
He smirks
Decency? You’re in the wrong room for that, ma chérie.
He slips a black credit card from his jacket onto a passing tray, murmuring in French.
We rented this place tonight.
You exhale angrily: No, you didn’t.
He leans back, smiling wickedly, gaze locked on you.
Give it five minutes.
The waiter nods across the room. He looks back at you, leaning forward, as if only now finding this interesting.
Now we did. He lifts his glass. A toast? A dismissal?
And if the noise still bothers you… He licks champagne from his lip, voice flat.
I can buy your silence, ma chérie. Or your obedience. Whichever you prefer.
So tell me…
How much?
I’m buying it.