The ride to my SoHo apartment was silent except for the driver's soft jazz.

Ethan sat stiff beside me, still in his bar shirt, sleeves rolled, arms crossed tight over his chest like armor. Every few blocks the streetlights swept across his face—highlighting those sharp cheekbones, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes, and that stubborn mouth.

He smelled like bourbon and lime.

Back at the apartment I kicked off my heels, padded barefoot across the reclaimed walnut floors, and flicked on the pendant light over the kitchen island.

Warm amber glow. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering lights of lower Manhattan.

Ethan stood just inside the door, hands in his pockets, looking like he wanted to bolt.

“Shower,” I said. “Guest bathroom at the end of the hall. Clean towels on the shelf. Robe on the back of the door.”

He didn't move.

I tilted my head. “Problem?”

“You really think this works?” His voice was quiet, almost curious. “You buy me for a while, humiliate me, and then what? Novelty wears off and I disappear?”

I walked toward him, steps deliberate. I stopped close enough that he had to look down at me.

“Then I finally get everything I've wanted since sophomore year,” I said softly, “and you get enough cash to breathe until you figure out your next move. Win-win.”

Ethan was gorgeous. Even though we couldn't stand each other, I had to admit it.

The first time I saw him sophomore year, I'd wanted him.

Who knew I'd actually get the chance?

He must really be in debt.

Now it was mine.

Something strange flickered in those gray eyes—anger, shock, maybe both.

Without a word he turned and disappeared down the hall.

Twenty minutes later he came back wearing only the white robe, hair damp, smelling like my cedar-and-bergamot body wash.

The robe was too small on him; every movement stretched the fabric tight.

I was already curled on the couch with a glass of Pinot Noir.

“Drop it.”

He stopped mid-step, froze.

I set the glass down. “The robe. Take it off.”

His jaw worked. He stood there so long I thought he'd refuse.

“Not willing? Then give the money back,” I said with a cold smile.

Silence. Then Ethan reached for the belt and let the robe fall.

Jesus Christ.

Broad shoulders, defined pecs, abs so carved they looked Photoshopped.

A dark trail of hair disappearing under black boxer briefs that hid almost nothing.

Thick thighs from years of squats, calves cut clean. Even his feet were perfect.

He stood there, arms at his sides, letting me look, letting the humiliation burn through him.

I rose and circled him slowly. My fingertips traced his collarbone, down the center of his chest, over the ridges of his stomach. His muscles jumped at every touch.

“Bedroom,” I said, voice different now. “Now.”

He followed without protest.

I pushed him onto the king-size bed, climbed over him, straddled his hips. His hands stayed flat on the mattress like he didn't have permission to touch me.

I gripped his jaw, tilted his face up. “You know what a kept man does, right?”

His ears turned red. After a moment he rasped, “Yeah.”

“Then kiss me.” I dragged my index finger from his collarbone down the silk of my slip. “Start here. Don't stop until I say you can.”

He stared at the path I'd drawn. His breathing turned quick and shaky.

“What are you waiting for? Not willing?”

“No. I can.” He said it.

When he finally leaned in, his lips barely brushed my skin.

Then he got serious.

Slow, reverent kisses. Tongue tracing my collarbone, moving down my chest.

Unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch. One big hand gently cupped the back of my thigh; I felt his fingertips tremble.

He was good. Too good.

Before I could stop myself I grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. His pupils blew wide, lips wet, cheeks flushed.

“Enough,” I managed, voice shaking. “Today… that's it for now.”

One corner of his mouth twitched—just the tiniest flicker.

I couldn't tell if it was a smile or mockery.

“Whatever you say… Brooke.”

Even though I was in a hurry to keep Ethan, I had zero actual bedroom experience. None.

I never expected his teasing skills to be that lethal. Just kissing almost made me scream.

This could not happen.

I had to show Ethan who was in charge. I was the one paying!

The next morning I found him in the living room folding my dry-cleaning.

I leaned against the doorframe. “Why are you wearing so many clothes in my house? Don't want me to look?”

He paused, holding one of my silk camisoles.

I crossed my arms. “House rule number one: no shirts indoors. Ever.”

His brows drew together, anger flashing.

“Brooke!”

I smiled.

“Don't like it? Door's right there. I can send the money back to your account.”

His teeth clicked together. He set the hanger down and reached for his pants.

“Wait,” I called, “leave those on for now.”

He exhaled through his nose—half scoff, half laugh. He turned to the kitchen and started coffee. Every muscle in his back was tight, like he was holding rage inside.

I followed, hopped onto the quartz island, and watched. Watched the light play across his shoulders, watched his biceps flex as he poured oat milk into my favorite mug.

So damn tempting.

Like he was deliberately teasing me!

“Rule number two,” I said. “You cook, you clean, you look pretty, and you do whatever I tell you. No attitude.”

He set the mug in front of me without meeting my eyes. “Got it.”

“Good boy.”

His knuckles went white on the counter edge.

“Come here so I can touch you.”

He went instantly wary.

Before he could react I threatened, “Not willing? Refund…”

He gave me a complicated look. Resigned, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth again, and turned to face me.

I nodded, satisfied. The second my fingers met his chest I felt the tiny tremor run through him.

Firm. Warm.

So good to touch.

Ignoring his expression, I slid my hand lower.

The lower I went, the redder his face got. His whole body shook with anger, breathing fast.

By the time I was kneading and exploring further he actually let out a muffled groan.

“Brooke…”

I pressed two fingers to his lips. “You can't keep calling your sugar daddy by name.”

“Then what do I call you?”

“Hmm… call me Mistress.”

“…”

In the end Ethan never said it.

I didn't push. I wasn't into that anyway; I was just messing with him.

I sipped my coffee, enjoying the view and the thick tension in the air.

That afternoon my friend Riley showed up uninvited with bagels and gossip.

When she saw Ethan in nothing but gray Nike basketball shorts and an apron, vacuuming, she froze in the doorway.

“Brooke,” she hissed, dragging me into the pantry. “You have Ethan Hayes doing your chores?”

“He's broke,” I shrugged. “What else is he supposed to do?”

“Girl, men like him don't stay broke. They bounce back. They reinvent. They get even more powerful.”

I peeked through the crack. Ethan was on his knees scrubbing the baseboards, head down, every line of his body radiating controlled humiliation.

“He's finished,” I told her. “Trust me.”

Later I made him say it out loud.

“Ethan, come here.”

He walked over, still wearing the apron, abs gleaming under the recessed lights.

“Tell Riley exactly what you are to me.”

His throat worked. Shame, anger, resignation crossed his face.

Eyes lowered, voice low and rough: “I'm her… kept man.”

Riley's jaw literally dropped.

After he went back to cleaning she stared at me. “I still can't believe he agreed. What exactly have you made him do?”

My cheeks heated. “Mostly… aesthetic labor.”

The news that Ethan was my kept man spread like wildfire through the group chats.

By Tuesday night my phone was vibrating itself off the nightstand.

Sophia: You actually hired Ethan Hayes??

Chad: Saw him changing in the locker room junior year. You're gonna need ice packs.

Riley: Pics or it didn't happen.

I glanced toward the bathroom. Ethan was hand-washing my La Perla set in nothing but those damn gray shorts.

The thin fabric clung to his powerful thighs and did zero to hide the very obvious outline between them.

He felt my stare and glanced back. “Problem?”

I didn't answer. Just kept looking.

He finally realized where my eyes were, grabbed a lace thong and covered himself. “Brooke.”

I hopped off the counter and walked over, full sugar-daddy mode. “What? You're mine now. That means I can look, I can touch, I can use. If it doesn't work, I return it.”

His face went scarlet.

Then he seemed to decide something.

He hooked both thumbs in the waistband and started dragging the shorts down.

“Fine. You want proof it works? Look.”

My brain went blank. I froze, watching him slowly tug the fabric lower.