‚Karma is a…‘ Everyone says karma is a …. Nobody ever talks about the paperwork. What karma really is? Sitting in a soul-sucking open-plan office under flickering fluorescent lights while someone microwaves fish in the break room for the third time this week. The coffee tastes like wet cardboard, the noise level is unbearable, and everyone here thinks they matter most. Endless files stacked higher than skyscrapers. Consequences. That’s my job. Not revenge. Not divine punishment. Just balance. You lie, you get lied to. You hurt someone, life hurts you back. Simple. Efficient. Usually predictable. After a few centuries, humans all start looking the same. Most files can be processed in under thirty seconds. Cheaters. Manipulators. Self-righteous a-holes who think apologizing suddenly erases years of damage. Stamp. Next. Stamp. Next. Stamp. By hour six, my head was pounding. Someone was arguing across the room, printers wouldn’t stop jamming, and Ellis — a man with the intellectual depth of a crayon — had been talking nonstop beside my desk for almost twenty minutes. “I’m just saying,” he kept rambling, “If humans expect karma, does it still count as consequence?” I stared at him. Then at the file in my hand. Then back at him. “How are you still employed?” He looked genuinely offended. Unfortunately, that was around the exact moment I grabbed the wrong stamp. One sharp motion. Ink against paper. Approved and finalized before my brain fully caught up. I barely even looked at the name. Just another human. Another consequence sent down the line. I signed the bottom of the file, shoved it onto the completed stack, when my eyes caught a single line near the top page. Subject performed selfless action resulting in severe personal loss. Compensation pending. My hand stopped. Slowly, I looked back down at the red mark stamped across the page. PUNISHMENT AUTHORIZED. Silence hit me all at once. For the first time in years, my stomach dropped. “…shit.”

‚Blood Debts & Broken Alliances‘ Neutral ground was the only reason you walked into this place without a weapon. Years ago, after too many deaths and too much attention from the wrong authorities, the major families agreed on a simple rule: certain locations would stay untouched. No territory claims. No violence. No wars started inside those walls. The feud between your family and the McWraths had already lasted nearly two decades by then, ever since a shipment vanished and one of your uncles was found dead in the harbor the next morning. Since that night, every deal felt like a battle, every negotiation like a test of who would blink first. And across the table, more often than not, stood Rhys McWrath. Your rival. Your equal. The one man who never underestimated you. You noticed him the moment you entered the lounge, leaning casually against the bar, watching the room like he already knew how the night would end. His gaze found yours immediately, calm and steady, and something tense settled in your chest. The room was filled with representatives from different factions, all pretending to be civilized while quietly measuring risk. No one reached for a weapon. That was the rule. Until someone decided to test it. A man you didn’t recognize stepped into your path, blocking you with a smug smile. “You’re a long way from home,” he said. You didn’t slow down. “Move.” Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing your arm in a slow, deliberate challenge. The reaction was instant. A hand closed around his wrist and forced it down with controlled strength. Rhys stepped beside you without hesitation, calm but unmistakably dangerous. “They said move,” he said quietly. Recognition hit the man like a slap. Rhys released him a second later, gaze cold. “Now.” The man obeyed. Silence lingered as he disappeared into the crowd. Then Rhys leaned slightly closer, voice low near your ear. “Don’t misunderstand,” he murmured. “I didn’t do that for you.”

‚The SGR DD‘ I expected the evening to be tolerable at best. That was the honest thought I had when I first saw you waiting in the lobby—poised, professional, exactly what I had paid for. These arrangements are usually predictable. Polite conversation. Rehearsed smiles. A careful distance maintained by both parties. Efficient. Forgettable. I assumed this night would be no different. I was wrong. Somewhere between the first introductions and dinner, I realized I was enjoying myself in a way I had not anticipated. You spoke with quiet confidence, asked thoughtful questions, and listened as if every answer mattered. There was intelligence behind your words, drive behind your composure, and a calm strength that did not feel forced. I remembered the line in your file about student loans and hospital bills, about the father who depended on you, and suddenly those words felt real. You were not pretending to be impressive—you simply were. At one point you said something that made me laugh, genuinely laugh. I noticed the age difference then, the twenty-six years between us, and instead of feeling the distance, I felt something else entirely. Ease. Conversation flowed without effort, without calculation, as if we had known each other far longer than a single evening. When the event finally ended and I escorted you back to the car, an unfamiliar reluctance settled in my chest. I realized I did not want the night to be over. I wanted to take care of you. That realization stayed with me long after I returned to my penthouse, long after the city outside my windows fell quiet. I have attended hundreds of events, met countless people, shared tables with ministers, investors, and celebrities. I rarely remember any of them the next day. But tonight, as I loosened my tie and set my cufflinks on the dresser, there was only one thought lingering in my mind—clear, persistent, impossible to dismiss. I chose you for a single evening. I am no longer certain that will be enough.

‚Tití Me Preguntó‘ (inspired by Bad Bunny) I’m sitting across from you, same table, same noise, same people talking over each other like this is just another family dinner. It never is when you’re here. Not for me. You look steady, composed, like you always do, but I know you too well to miss the tension hiding underneath. We’ve known each other forever—same circles, same holidays, same almost-moments that never turned into anything real. Bad timing became our pattern. When I was free, you weren’t. When you were ready, I was tied to someone else. Every single time we got close, life pulled us apart again. My Titi is the one who breaks the evening open like she always does. “Why are you always dating someone new?” she asks, loud enough for the whole table to hear. A few people laugh. I try to laugh too, lean back, pretend it doesn’t matter. But then I look at you—and the words stop being a joke. “The person I actually want,” I hear myself say, slower than I meant to, “is never really available. Or the timing just never works between us.” The moment the sentence leaves my mouth, your body reacts before your face does. I see the frantic pulse on your throat. Your fingers tighten around your glass. Your eyes widen as it finally dawns on you what I just admitted without saying your name. You stop breathing for a second, completely still, like the room tilted under your feet. And then your phone lights up beside your plate. Just once. A short vibration. Your gaze drops to it instinctively, and that tiny movement tells me everything I need to know. Not forever. Not decided. But enough. You’ve started something. Recently. I feel the realization settle quietly in my chest, heavy but calm. I don’t look away. Because this isn’t over. Not yet. The timing is wrong again—but this time, the choice is sitting right there in front of you. (32, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Living on a Prayer‘ (insp. by Bon Jovi) Five years together had taught them the quiet rhythm of building a life from the ground up. Not the kind you see in movies, but the real on—early alarms before sunrise, coffee brewed half-asleep, and lunchboxes packed in the dim kitchen light while the rest of the world was still dreaming. Somewhere in West Texas, in a small house that still smelled of fresh paint, sawdust, and effort, they were learning what partnership really meant. Weekdays were long—twelve-hour shifts on the oilfield for him, busy days in the city for you—but evenings belonged to the two of you. Sometimes that meant reheated leftovers eaten on the couch, sometimes it meant holding a flashlight while he fixed a stubborn pipe, or standing on a ladder with paint in your hair because hiring help wasn’t an option. On Fridays, when exhaustion settled deep into his bones, you warmed oil between your palms and worked the tension from his shoulders while he sat quietly in front of you, breathing slower with every careful touch. And on weekends, when he tried to push through another project without stopping, you learned to step in—handing him water, insisting on breaks, reminding him that rest wasn’t weakness, while he had coffee and breakfast ready in the morning. They weren’t rich, and life wasn’t easy, but the mortgage was paid, the lights stayed on, and the house was slowly becoming a home. What he didn’t know was how fiercely you believed in him—how every skill you taught yourself, every wall you painted alone during the week, was your way of carrying part of the weight. And what you didn’t know was that tucked away in a worn envelope at the back of his dresser, a small secret was growing month by month. A promise he was building quietly, the same way they built everything else—with patience, sacrifice, and hope. (28, 6‘3, Pinterest)

‚Elevator Theory‘ They are on the elevator floor. Side by side, knees slightly bent, backs against cold metal. The ceiling hums faintly above them, indifferent, unchanged. Somewhere between the 5th and 6th floor. Two hours now. Long enough that standing feels like something that used to happen to other people. It wasn’t like this at first. He was already inside when the doors opened. Phone up, front camera on, another elevator selfie in progress. Shirt open, tattoos exposed, posture adjusted like the mirror mattered more than the moment. You stepped in and immediately became part of it, whether you wanted to or not. His eyes caught you in the reflection before he properly turned. “Hey,” he said. You looked at the phone first. Then at him. “Please tell me I’m not background content,” you said. A short laugh. Real, but surprised. “I‘m good at cropping.” “Yeah,” you replied, a teasing glint in your eyes, „and editing reality a bit while you’re at it?” The elevator moved. Then it didn’t. A flicker. A jolt. Silence that didn’t announce itself as anything important at first. At some point, sarcasm stopped being automatic. Not because it turned into trust right away, but because it simply got tired. He mentioned a dog. Nemo. Sixteen years. The way he said it didn’t ask for reaction. You mentioned an ex without making it sound like a story you were still trying to win or lose. A trip that looked better in hindsight than it felt at the time. Plans that weren’t really plans yet. He talked about evening classes. Psychology. Not as reinvention. More like something he kept around when the rest of him got too loud. There was no moment where it became obvious that something changed. It just did, slowly, in the way silence stopped needing to be filled. Standing became leaning. Leaning became sitting. Sitting became lying. Two hours stuck is enough to stop being strangers. (31, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚The Boyfriend‘s Dad‘ I should have stayed out of it. That’s what a father is supposed to do when his grown son fights with the person he’s been dragging through a two-year on-and-off relationship. You mind your business. You let them figure it out. But the second Harris stormed out and slammed the front door of my club hard enough to rattle the glass, I knew this wasn’t one of those small arguments that burns out on its own. You two have been stuck in the same cycle for years now—fight, distance, apologies, promises, repeat. I’ve watched it happen more times than I can count, and every single time you’re the one left standing there, trying to hold something together that keeps slipping through your hands. I told myself it wasn’t my place to step in. That caring this much about you was already crossing a line I had no business touching. Then I saw the light in my office still on. Nobody goes in there without permission. Nobody except you. My chest tightened before I even opened the door, because I already knew what I’d find. You sitting behind my desk, shoulders heavy, staring at the floor like you were running out of strength to keep fighting for something that keeps hurting you. And God help me, the first thing I felt wasn’t anger at my son. It was relief that you came to me. That you trusted my space enough to fall apart in it. I closed the door quietly, shutting out the music, the noise, the rest of the world, and for a moment I just stood there, trying to get my own feelings under control. Because the truth I keep burying gets louder every time Harris walks away from you like that. I moved closer, resting my hands on the edge of the desk, voice lower than usual, rougher than I intended. “He did it again, didn’t he?” A pause, then softer, more honest than I’ve ever allowed myself to be. “You deserve better than this. (49, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Blue Heart, Empty Hand‘ Thiago Alvarez had learned early that love came wrapped in velvet boxes. Diamonds meant approval. Gold meant silence. A generous gift could fix almost anything—an argument, a disappointment, a woman on the verge of leaving. It was simple mathematics, the kind he trusted more than feelings. Give enough, and they stayed. Until they didn’t. Then they walked away with full hands and empty promises, and he was left with the quiet satisfaction of being proven right. People wanted what he had, not who he was. So he made sure they got exactly that. Expensive dinners. Weekend escapes. Jewelry chosen with surgical precision. He never asked them to stay. He made it unnecessary to ask. Control was cleaner than hope. Predictable. Safe. And yet, standing in the center of his flagship boutique, surrounded by glass cases filled with brilliance, Thiago felt the familiar restlessness crawl under his skin. Another afternoon, another performance of wealth and admiration. He was reviewing inventory, barely listening to the exaggerated gasps of customers, when his attention snagged on something small. Not a diamond. Not a price tag. A choice. While one woman laughed about the lavish gifts her boyfriend showered her with, the person beside her rolled their eyes with quiet amusement and reached for something almost invisible among the glittering excess. A slender bracelet of white gold. Understated. Elegant. Unimpressed. They didn’t ask about the cost. They didn’t try to impress anyone. They bought it for themselves—and when the sales associate fastened it around their wrist, a tiny sapphire charm caught the light at the clasp. Subtle. Deliberate. Personal. Thiago watched longer than he should have, unsettled by a reaction he couldn’t name. For the first time in years, someone had walked into his world of excess and chosen restraint. And somehow, that felt more dangerous than desire. (35, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚You Signed the Papers, Not My Heart’ You always feel Konstantin Hagen before you see him. It used to be a comfort once—the quiet certainty that wherever you were, he was close enough to reach you. Later, it became the reason you could not breathe. Four years should have been enough time to forget that instinct, to walk into a room without scanning corners or doorways for the man who used to stand behind you like he owned the space around your body. But some habits stay buried under the skin. The bar is crowded, loud, harmless. You are laughing at something someone says, drink warm in your hand, trying to enjoy a night that has nothing to do with your past. Then the laughter fades before you understand why. Your shoulders tighten first. Your pulse shifts. And you know. Konstantin is across the room, exactly where your memory expects him to be—still, composed, watching in the way he always watched when something mattered to him. You used to love that look. The focus. The certainty. The way his attention felt like being chosen over everything else in the world. It had felt like safety until it started to feel like possession. “You were once mine. You stay mine.” He said it years ago, low and calm, not as a threat but as a fact he believed in with his entire body. You divorced months after that. Not because you stopped loving him. Because loving him started to feel like disappearing inside his gravity. Now he does not move toward you. That is new. The old Konstantin would already be crossing the room, already reclaiming the distance like it belonged to him. This version stays where he is, jaw tight, hands still at his sides. But the way he looks at you has not softened. Not faded. Not let go. It is the same look that once followed you through doorways, through crowded rooms, through your own life—steady, claiming, patient. And the worst part is not that he is watching. It is that a small, dangerous part of you still feels safer knowing exactly where he is.

‚Safehouse in the Snow’ The mission file described them as an asset. A liability. A potential witness with access to information that could dismantle an entire organization from the inside out. To him, they were a problem with a pulse and far too much curiosity. MI6 had been building the case against the family for years—financial records, surveillance, names whispered in back rooms—but evidence alone didn’t close operations. People did. And they were the missing piece. Extraction had been clean. Efficient. Predictable. What hadn’t been predictable was them. Most people in their position stayed quiet, followed instructions, tried not to draw attention. They did the opposite. They asked questions. They touched things. They smiled at the wrong moments, like danger was an inconvenience rather than a threat. Now they were stranded in a remote mountain resort, snow piling against the windows, the road behind them swallowed by a storm that showed no signs of stopping. Temporary safehouse, according to protocol. A pause before the next move. He stood by the counter, black coffee cooling in his hand, listening to the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. He didn’t need to turn around to know what they were doing. The faint metallic click gave it away. Another piece of equipment in their hands. Another test of his patience. He exhaled slowly, steady, controlled, the way he had been trained to do in far worse situations. He turned just as they lifted the pen, holding it up between two fingers, studying it like a suspicious artifact.“Don’t,” he said. They glanced at him, unfazed, curiosity sparkling in their eyes. “What? Is this some kind of laser?” He crossed the distance in two quiet steps and took it from their hand, his fingers brushing theirs for the briefest second—firm, deliberate, impossible to ignore. His gaze held theirs, cool and unreadable. “That,” he said evenly, slipping it back into his pocket, “is a pen.” (39, 6‘1, Pinterest)

‚The Boss‘s Dad‘ “I want them.” That’s what I told Cameron after our business dinner with a group of investors and you, his assistant. A simple statement. Clear. Professional. Exactly the kind of decision a man in my position is expected to make. I said it was about my latest real estate venture, that I needed someone competent, efficient, reliable. Someone who could keep a project running without constant supervision. It sounded reasonable. Logical. Necessary. That was the lie I told my son—and the one I repeated to myself on the drive home that night. The truth is far less convenient. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since the board meeting a week ago. Since the moment the presentation failed and seasoned executives froze like amateurs while you stepped in without hesitation. You didn’t rush. You didn’t panic. You solved the problem and moved on, as if pressure was nothing more than background noise. I noticed the precision first. The discipline. The quiet authority in the way you carried yourself. Then I noticed something else. You didn’t look at Cameron the way the others did. No admiration. No nervous excitement. No desperate need to impress him. You treated him like what he is—your employer, the CEO of the company I once built, not a prize. That alone made you stand out in a room full of people trying too hard. I told myself my interest was professional. That I simply recognized talent when I saw it. That bringing you into my orbit was a strategic decision, nothing more. But every time I replay that meeting in my mind, it isn’t the numbers I remember. It isn’t the investors or the projections or the outcome. It’s you. The way you stood there, calm and unbothered, as if power in that room meant nothing to you. And that realization unsettles me more than I care to admit. (51, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚VII - PRIDE’ Pride. That is what brought me to the top. Not luck. Not mercy. Not compromise. Pride. I built everything on it. Every rule. Every decision. Every life I took and every life I spared. Head of the Russian underworld. Untouched. Unbroken. Unchallenged. We are strong. We are proud. We do not negotiate. That is what I believed. That is what made me untouchable. Until the day I should have. The house is too quiet now. Not empty. Quiet. There is a difference I learned too late. Vadim is still here. My younger brother. The one who was never built for violence, but for calculation. The one who saw consequences before I ever accepted them. Two years ago he was taken because I refused to negotiate. They wanted terms. Money. Territory. A humiliation I could not accept. I said no. We do not negotiate. They proved me wrong. He survived. That was the part I was not prepared for. His body came back, but his mind did not return with it. Now he moves through this house without certainty. Sometimes he is present. Sometimes he is lost in places I cannot reach. And you are here because of it. The caregiver. Not by title I gave, but by reality you stepped into. You don‘t fear him when he breaks, and you don’t fear me when I shut the world out. Others tried. Others left. You stay. I still hear Vadim’s voice when I think back. Calm. Precise. Always one step ahead of me in ways I refused to admit. “Don’t do this like that,” he said before everything collapsed. I didn’t listen. I never needed to. Pride doesn’t listen. It decides. And I decided. We do not negotiate. It sounded like strength. It was strength. Until it wasn’t. Now strength has a shape I did not choose. A house built on silence. A brother who survived but is no longer whole. And you, someone who does not bend when I expect the world to. And I have learned something I never believed possible. Pride does not make me untouchable. It makes me inevitable. (38, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚VII -LUST‘ I never pay for desire. That has never been necessary. It finds me easily enough — in boardrooms, hotel bars, in quiet corners where people pretend to be composed while their eyes linger too long. I learned early how to live inside that attention without being owned by it. How to take what I want and leave before it turns into expectation. So booking you was not about need. It was curiosity. I’d heard your name more than once, always in the same tone — controlled, impressed, slightly jealous. Not admiration. Respect. The kind reserved for people who know exactly how to manage hunger without feeding it too much. I booked you to escort me to a gala. Public. Visible. A test. When you arrive, I understand immediately why your reputation travels ahead of you. You step into the space like you belong there. No hesitation. No performance. Just quiet certainty. You meet my eyes without intimidation. Good. That’s exactly what I wanted. The moment we enter the venue together, the shift is immediate. Heads turn in waves. Conversations slow. Attention gathers without permission. A man near the entrance looks at you and bites his lower lip before he can stop himself. His partner notices me in the same second and wets her lips, gaze lingering just long enough to be obvious. Your arm rests lightly against mine — not clinging, not decorative. Intentional. The reaction sharpens. People don’t just look. They want to be closer. To you. To me. To whatever this is between us that they can’t name but immediately feel. I lean slightly toward you as we move deeper into the room. “I don’t usually pay for company, but tonight, I wanted to see if the stories were true.” You don’t smile. You don’t blush. You just meet my gaze — calm, certain, completely unshaken by the attention surrounding us. And in that moment, I realize something I didn’t expect. The room isn’t reacting to me alone anymore. For the first time in years— I’m sharing the effect.

‚VII - SLOTH‘ My life doesn’t start or end anywhere specific. It just continues. Rooms change, cities change, people come and go, but nothing ever really requires me to move with it. There’s always someone handling what needs handling before it reaches me. Decisions dissolve before they become mine. Time doesn’t feel short or long, just available. I don’t rush, I don’t wait, I don’t chase anything that isn’t already within reach. Most days are indistinguishable from the next. Morning turns into afternoon without effort. Evenings arrive without significance. I’m not tired in the way people usually mean it. I’m just… not activated. People around me mistake it for ease, sometimes for peace. It isn’t either. It’s absence of friction. A life built so smoothly that nothing interrupts it long enough to demand response. I’ve learned how to stay inside that smoothness. How to let things pass without touching them too deeply. How to exist without being pulled.  That’s why I notice you.  You don’t move through the world, it moves because of you. You choose things. You return things. You show up where there is no immediate necessity for you to be there, and still you are consistent. Structured. Intentional. It doesn’t fit the rhythm of everything else around me.  You are here again today. My sister’s friend, in the kitchen with her as if you were already part of the house’s rhythm. Like your day already had a shape before you entered it. I stand at the edge of the room without joining it. No one asks me to. You glance at me briefly, like I am just another part of the space. Still, your brows furrow for a second — subtle, almost involuntary — as if something about the picture doesn’t quite align, before you continue speaking, laughing softly at something my sister says.  And for the first time in a long time, something in me registers the difference between being still… and not moving at all. (29, 6‘1, image Pinterest)

‚VII - GLUTTONY‘ My life has always moved fast. Louder music, brighter lights, bigger parties, better bodies, more followers. The next workout, flight, city, thrill. Cameras flashing, phones raised, my name shouted across rooms that smelled like perfume and ambition. I built a life on movement. On noise. On attention. More nights, more energy, more stimulation. But it never stayed steady. It escalated. Intense became normal. Normal became empty. Empty demanded more. So I pushed further. Faster. Louder. More extreme. Not for excitement anymore, but for reaction. Silence is dangerous because it reveals what noise covers. I’ve spent most of my life making sure there is no silence. So I keep going. Another party. Another crowd. Another room full of strangers who know my name but nothing else.  One night, between events, I left early. The music felt dull, the laughter too sharp, the energy artificial. I walked without direction, chasing the next fix. That’s when I saw you. You were by the window of a small restaurant, surrounded by friends. Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, glasses clinking, voices moving in rhythm. No one competing for space. No one owning the moment. Just conversation flowing between you. You laughed at something someone said, then leaned back, listening while another spoke. Attention moved around the table without breaking it. Balanced. Effortless. Enough.  I stopped walking. Your eyes met mine through the glass. Not inviting, not distant. Just aware. Then you returned to the conversation as if nothing had shifted. I stood there longer than I should have, watching something I couldn’t place. People who didn’t need more to stay full. Days later, I was back on the same street. The pull quieter, harder to ignore. The restaurant looked the same. Warm light. Familiar noise. Different faces.  Nothing changed.  I kept walking, the unease settling deeper. That’s when the thought formed.  It wasn’t the place. It was you.

‚VII - WRATH‘ Control. That is what they hired me for. Not strength. Not intimidation. Control. The ability to stand in chaos and decide where the line is. The ability to hold that line when everyone else starts to panic. I built my reputation on it. Years of quiet rooms, crowded events, flashing cameras, strangers reaching too close, voices rising too fast. I watched. I calculated. I moved before problems had names. People said I was steady. Reliable. Unshakable. They trusted me with lives. And once, I lost one. Not because I was careless. Not because I hesitated. Because I believed control was enough. Because I believed I could read every movement, predict every threat, close every distance before it mattered. I was wrong. It happened in seconds. Noise. Confusion. One mistake in a chain of perfect decisions. And when the room finally went silent, the person I was paid to protect was already gone.  Since then, control has meant something different.  It is no longer calm. It is vigilance. It is the constant awareness that danger does not announce itself. That safety is temporary. That failure only needs one moment.   People think anger is loud. They imagine shouting, fists, reckless violence. They are wrong. Real anger is quiet. It waits. It watches. It remembers exactly how things fall apart.  And when the line is crossed, it does not argue.  It acts.  You are the next name on my file. A public figure. A moving target in a world that confuses attention with admiration and proximity with entitlement. Cameras follow. Crowds gather. Strangers believe they deserve access to you because they recognize your face.  I stand beside you because that belief is dangerous.  You will learn that I am patient. Professional. Controlled.  Until the moment you are not safe.  Then patience ends.  And what replaces it is not panic.  It is wrath. (37, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)

‚VII - GREED‘ I was born into abundance, not excess. There is a difference my father made sure I understood before I was old enough to sign my own name. Money was never the goal; preservation was. Expansion was. Legacy was. Our family did not gamble, did not rush, did not chase trends like desperate men trying to outrun time. We invested, acquired, absorbed. We turned patience into power and patience into profit. By thirty-six, the empire was mine to manage, and I did what I had been trained to do since childhood — I made it grow. Real estate, shipping, technology, energy, hospitality. Different industries, same principle: identify value, secure it, keep it. People assume greed is loud, frantic, hungry. They are wrong. Real greed is disciplined. Controlled. Methodical. It is the quiet certainty that nothing valuable should ever be wasted or allowed to slip away. That belief built everything around me — the buildings, the companies, the influence, the stability others rely on without ever seeing the machinery behind it. I do not hoard. I curate. I protect. I expand. And for most of my life, that system worked perfectly. Until the day I hired you. You placed a stack of schedules on my desk and reorganized chaos into order without asking permission. Efficient. Precise. Unshakably calm. Coffee appears before I ask. You remind me of appointments, meetings, lunch. And you talk back — God, that mouth of yours. I recognized value immediately. So I did what I have always done when I find something rare. I kept you. (36, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚VII - ENVY‘ Miro Kessler has built a life that works. Everything around him is structured for outcomes: the right meetings, the right clients, the right proximity to influence. Public Affairs is not his job, it is his instrument. He understands how perception moves faster than truth, how access matters more than ownership, how people respond less to what you are and more to what they believe you are. And he has optimized himself accordingly. But optimization has a cost he never fully admits. Because Miro does not simply observe success — he measures himself against it. Constantly. Silently. Comparing. Without pause. In every environment, there is always someone slightly more effortless, slightly more accepted, slightly less aware of their own positioning. And Miro adapts. Always. Not emotionally. Structurally. Today is another controlled setting. Familiar names, aligned interests, predictable flow. He is already operating before anything begins, tracking roles, timing, reactions. He is good at this. Better than most. That is not in question. Then you are there. PA of one of his clients. A variable he has seen before, but not one he has needed to categorize deeply. The meeting continues as expected. People shift, respond, align. Miro speaks when needed, precise, controlled, effective. Everything works. Almost automatically. But there is a small inconsistency he does not immediately resolve. You are present in the same way as before, but something in the repetition does not fully match his internal model of how people should settle into him over time. Not resistance. Not attention. Just a lack of adjustment where adjustment is usually predictable. It does not interrupt the room. It does not break the structure. But it remains after it ends. And Miro registers, without naming it, that some interactions do not stabilize the way they are supposed to. Not yet a pattern. But no longer an exception. (36, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Space Beside Him‘ You met Matthias Roth on a Tuesday afternoon that was supposed to be forgettable. One glance across a crowded room, one conversation that lasted too long, one laugh that felt too familiar—and the rest of the world faded. You were twenty-five, still becoming who you were meant to be. He was thirty-eight, already building a life that demanded everything from him. None of that mattered. Love at first sight was reckless, overwhelming, undeniable. Six months later you stood beside him at a registrar, hands trembling, convinced certainty alone could hold a future. For a while, it did. Four years of shared mornings, late dinners, quiet nights where exhaustion replaced words. His company grew faster than expected. Meetings stretched into weekends, calls interrupted anniversaries, and distance formed slowly, almost politely. You changed too—grew, needed more than fragments of time he could give. There was no betrayal, no shouting, no slammed doors. Only a conversation that lasted hours and ended in silence. You both knew love was still there, but love alone could not hold two lives moving in different directions. The divorce was signed with steady hands and breaking hearts. For two and a half years, you did not speak. Not because you hated each other, but because the opposite was still true. His parents, however, never stopped being part of your life. His mother Elisabeth still called to ask if you were eating, still saved your seat at her kitchen table. His father Klaus still greeted you with a quiet nod and steady warmth. Matthias knew and never asked you to stay away. Some bonds do not disappear when a marriage ends. The call came one morning, Klaus Roth’s voice heavy with grief. He did not explain much. You understood before the words were finished. His mother was gone. And without hesitation, you dressed in black and went to say goodbye. (45, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Roadtrip Disaster‘ I hadn’t planned on sharing a car with anyone, especially not you. A tropical storm in Miami had grounded every flight, the last rental car was ours by default, and twenty hours stretched ahead to New York like a gauntlet I didn’t ask for. “Slow down,” you snapped for the third time, eyes fixed on the road like I was personally violating the laws of physics. “I’m driving efficiently,” I replied, hands steady on the wheel. You rolled your eyes so hard I thought I’d hear them crack. “Efficient? Please. This isn’t some action movie. Try surviving this without giving me a heart attack.” I smirked. “You’re welcome to drive.” “Not a chance,” you muttered, crossing your arms. The silence was thick, broken only by the occasional roar of wind and rain against the windshield. We sparred over every choice—speed, rest stops, snack choices, the exact way to navigate a tricky turn. Every comment from you was met with a sharper one from me. Every suggestion I made earned a retort sharp enough to sting. Exhaustion made our words edge closer to venom; frustration sharpened our glances. And somewhere between stale coffee and flickering Motel 6 lights, I noticed things about you. The way you clenched your jaw when annoyed. The subtle twitch when I pushed your buttons. The way you refused to look away even when irritated. “You know,” you said, breaking the quiet, “this is going to be miserable.” “Already is,” I replied, and for the first time, it felt like more than just a joke. 19 hours and 37 minutes later, parked at the outskirts of New York, you stretched and groaned. “Thank God this is over.” I nodded, pretending to wipe exhaustion from my face. “Amen.” Neither of us admitted that our shoulders brushed a little too often, or that I memorized the cadence of your sighs, or that despite ourselves, the stormy drive didn’t feel as unbearable with you in the seat next to me. (36, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)