Chapter 1

The Egyptian silk sheet was a mess across the king-size bed. In the air lingered that typical trail of sex, sweat, and an expensive perfume that seemed to seep into the walls of the twentieth floor.

Beside me, the woman whose name I had to make an extra effort to remember,maybe Chloe or Claire,breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of someone who had just reached the peak.

She was flawless. The kind of perfection that money and an heir’s last name attract without any real effort required.

Bringing a woman like her to my Upper East Side apartment had been a purely mechanical task. A longer gaze in the right lounge, a half-smile, and the keys to the Mercedes left on the marble counter. They always come. They always want to be part of Aidan Vance’s world.

And she was good, I have to admit. Precise movements, commitment, and an audacity that would make any man beg for more. I made sure she got there,it’s a matter of honor, or perhaps ego.

I like being the best at everything I do, and that includes making sure whoever occupies my bed leaves convinced they’ve lived the best night of their life.

“That was… surreal, Aidan.”

She whispered, her voice hoarse, before getting up and walking toward the marble bathroom.

“I know. You were incredible.”

I replied, using my best tone of voice and the smile I had already perfected.

I heard the sound of water filling the bathtub. The moment the door closed, my smile collapsed instantly.

The golden lie.

I was exhausted, but not in the right way. My body relaxed against the mattress, yet my mind was racing at full speed, screaming the truth I tried to drown in luxury: I had faked it again.

Once more, I performed the perfect climax, the well-timed moans, and the way I gripped her hips. All so she would feel like the most desired woman in the world.

But inside? A cold emptiness. Nothing.

I’m twenty-eight years old and I own everything money can buy. The Vance name opens doors most people don’t even know exist. I have the physique, the cars, and the respect of the market. But complete satisfaction is the only luxury my bank balance cannot purchase.

The reason has a name, a date, and a scene that no five-hundred-dollar-an-hour therapy has managed to erase.

It all goes back to that afternoon thirteen years ago. I was a fifteen-year-old teenager trying to prove a courage I didn’t possess. It wasn’t in a nice place, but in the cold half-light of an abandoned building a concrete skeleton where what I did and what I allowed to happen became my life sentence.

Guilt is a parasite that feeds on any trace of pleasure. I’ve tried everything. Beautiful women, models, intellectuals. I even tried men once, in a moment of desperation to feel *anything*. It was a quick encounter in a private club.

The result? Worse. An apathy bordering on discouragement,not because of the act itself, but because even that didn’t fill the hole I had dug for myself.

The price of that afternoon in the abandoned building is this: being the perfect lover to hide the hollow man I’ve become.

The bathroom door opened, releasing a warm mist scented with sandalwood. She stood in the doorway, her skin damp and glistening under the light, naked and completely at ease. Her look was that of someone who wanted another round.

“The water’s perfect, Aidan.”

She said, tilting her head in a way she thought was irresistible.

“But the tub is way too big for just one person. Coming?”

I felt the weight of mental exhaustion, but the “character” took control. I would never deny her this. I don’t deny pleasure to anyone who’s in my bed,it’s my way of serving my sentence. Being the master of other people’s satisfaction is the only mask I have left.

I threw the sheet aside and stood up, letting her see the body I had sculpted like armor.

“You’re insatiable.”

I said, forcing a spark of desire into my eyes as I walked toward her.

I would go. I would play my role perfectly. I would make her scream my name again. And in the end, I would still be the only one there feeling absolutely nothing.