Alexander Millers was at the top of the world.
At least, that's what everyone saw.
The industry he'd built—his empire of pleasure and indulgence—was thriving. Every quarter, the numbers climbed higher. Every investment turned to gold. Exclusive clubs, high-end escort services, luxury adult entertainment ventures—he owned them all.
And he was the face of it.
The billionaire playboy.The sinful king of a world where money, power, and pleasure were currency.
He was always surrounded—by beautiful women, by powerful men, by people who whispered his name like it was sacred. His name was synonymous with excess, with desire, with fantasies people paid millions to experience.
He played his role well.
The world saw a man who indulged in everything.
They didn't know the truth.
That he couldn't stand to be touched.
That every time a woman's fingers grazed his arm, every time someone leaned too close, his skin crawled with something cold and sharp.
It wasn't fear.It wasn't trauma.
It was just... disgust.
He should've been used to it by now.
The performance.
He knew how to play the part. Let the world see what it wanted. Let women touch him, cling to him, act like he was something to own. Let them believe he craved it.
Because his business depended on that illusion.
His brand was built on indulgence—on the fantasy that he lived for pleasure.
If people knew the truth—that the man behind it all didn't even enjoy a simple caress—his empire would fracture.Because who would trust a man who didn't believe in the product he sold?
So, he played along.
He let his dates drape themselves over him. Let them trace his collar, kiss his cheek, laugh into his neck.
And every time, he swallowed the revulsion like poison from a crystal glass.
Tonight was no different.
He sat in an expensive restaurant, a woman's hand resting on his arm, her perfume cloying, her voice sweet as syrup.
His expression stayed smooth.
Unbothered. Unaffected.
Like he wasn't screaming inside.
His focus drifted.
The business conversation at the table—Dubai expansion, new partnerships, projections—buzzed around him. But his mind was elsewhere.
On the ring.
The one on his finger.
It was perfect.
More than perfect. It felt like it had always belonged there.
The weight, the metal, the garnet—it was seamless.
Rare, for something to feel that right.
The woman beside him leaned in again. Her nails skimmed his wrist.
His body tensed.
He barely looked at her.
Because his mind was circling something else.
The woman who made this ring.
The hands that shaped it.
The thought was ridiculous—and yet, he couldn't shake it.
He drowned the discomfort with another sip of wine.
Because that's what he did.Ignore. Endure. Perform.
He was Alexander Millers, after all.
And no one could ever know how much he hated every second of it.
He saw her the moment she started walking toward him.
It was impossible not to.
She stood out—not because she tried, but because she didn't.
He'd seen her before. Weeks ago. Another restaurant. She'd been with another woman—her sister, probably. He hadn't looked twice back then.
But now?
Now, she was unforgettable.
Soft curls bounced as she moved, catching the golden light. Her hair was brown, but warm streaks glinted through it. Her eyes—green, but layered. Deep. Sharp. Unapologetically alive.
She wasn't polished. Not in the way women in his world were.
She was something else.
Unpracticed elegance.
Her lips parted slightly as she approached—like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
And then he saw it—
The blush.
Warm, blooming red, creeping down her throat.
Disappointment curled in his chest.
Another one.
Another woman looking at him like he was something to want.
He'd thought—for a second—that she might be different.
But as she stood there, visibly flustered, unable to meet his eyes for long, he felt the familiar weight settle in.
Then—
She spoke.
"Uh—I—I just—I wanted to..." She paused, frustrated with herself, then blurted, "I'm Gertrude."
He blinked.
Then it clicked.
Gertrude.
His jeweler.
The one whose work he'd been wearing for months.
His gaze dropped briefly to the lapel ornament.
Her hands had made this.
"You're Gertrude?" he asked, voice smooth with quiet surprise.
She nodded quickly. "Please—call me Gie."
He studied her. This wasn't what he'd expected.
Someone who crafted pieces with such precision, such strength, such bite... and yet here she was, flustered and flushed.
"You're my jeweler," he said, sitting back slightly.
Her face went crimson. "Y-yes."
Then—her eyes flicked to the ring, to the lapel pin.
And in a breathless voice, reverent like a prayer, she asked—
"How do you like them?"
Alexander paused.
That blush—It wasn't for him.
It was for the jewelry.
And something inside him uncoiled.
Relief.
She wasn't looking at him like a fantasy.She was looking at her art.
He let the corner of his mouth lift. "They're beautiful."
And just like that—she lit up.
Like sunlight breaking through a cloud.
The nerves melted into something pure, something real.
"You think so?" she asked, voice lighter, eyes brighter.
"I wouldn't wear them if I didn't."
She beamed, and the sincerity of it stunned him.
There was no performance in her expression. No mask. No agenda.
Then—like she couldn't stop herself—she said, "I was actually thinking about an earring for you next."
Alexander blinked.
"I don't have a piercing."
Her lips parted. Then, without missing a beat, she looked utterly serious. "Well, you should get one. The design I have in mind would look amazing on you."
He had never considered it.
Never had a reason to.
But as he looked at her—at the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about creating—he found himself saying,
"Alright."
And just like that—
He let her create for him again.