Chapter 8
Alexander Millers was at the top of the world.
At least, that's what everyone saw.
The industry he had built—his empire of pleasure and indulgence—was thriving. Every quarter, the numbers climbed higher. Every investment he touched turned into 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 something sacred. His name was synonymous with excess, with desire, with the kind of fantasies people paid millions to experience.
He played his role well.
The world saw him as 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 ugly and cold.
It wasn't fear.
It wasn't trauma.
It was just… disgust.
And yet, here he was, seated in an expensive restaurant, with a woman's hand resting on his forearm, her laugh soft, her perfume cloying, as he kept his expression smooth.
Unbothered. Unaffected.
Like this was normal.
Like he wasn't screaming inside.
The Curse of His Own Persona
He should be used to this by now.
The game of it.
He knew how to act the part. How to let the world see exactly what they expected of him.
He let women touch him, let them cling to him like he was something worth possessing, let them believe he was the kind of man who wanted to be touched.
Because his business depended on it.
Because his entire brand was built on the illusion that he lived for pleasure.
If people knew the truth—that the man selling indulgence and vice couldn't even tolerate a simple caress—his entire empire would collapse in on itself.
Because who would trust a man who couldn't even enjoy the very product he sold?
So he played the part.
He let his dates drape themselves over him. Let them trace their fingers over his collar. Let them kiss his cheek at events.
And every time, he swallowed the disgust like it was poison in a crystal glass.
As the dinner went on, his focus drifted.
His business associates were talking—something about expansion, about new markets, about a potential partnership in Dubai.
He should have been listening.
Instead, his gaze flickered over the restaurant, his mind circling something else, something distant—
Something that had been bothering him for weeks.
The ring.
The one on his finger.
It was perfect.
More than perfect, really. It felt made for him, like it belonged there before he had even known it existed. The weight of it, the cool metal, the way the garnet gleamed under dim lighting—it was seamless, effortless.
It was rare, for something to feel right.
For something to sit against his skin without feeling wrong.
The woman next to him leaned in, laughing at something he hadn't heard. Her nails skimmed his wrist, and he fought the urge to flinch.
He barely looked at her, barely acknowledged the way she tried to pull his attention back.
Because his mind was somewhere else.
Lingering on a nameless artist he had never met.
On the hands that had made this ring.
On the idea of what else she could create for him.
A ridiculous thought.
And yet, one he couldn't shake.
He exhaled slowly, drowning the discomfort with another sip of expensive wine.
Because that was all he could do.
Ignore. Endure. Perform.
After all, he was Alexander Millers.
The playboy king.
And no one could ever know he hated every second of it.
Alexander saw her the moment she started walking toward him.
It was impossible not to.
She was the kind of woman that stood out, the kind that stayed in your mind long after you'd looked away.
And he had seen her before.
A few weeks ago, at another high-end restaurant, she had been seated with another woman—probably her sister. He hadn't paid much attention at the time, only noting her in passing. But now, watching her move toward him with hesitant, unsure steps, he found himself remembering.
She was beautiful—but not in the polished, predictable way most women around him were.
Her hair was a mass of soft, wild curls, tumbling down her back, bouncing with every movement. Brown, but under the warm restaurant lighting, streaked with hints of gold.
Her eyes—green. But not a simple shade. They were rich, bright, alive, as if they could see past the surface of things.
Her lips were full, pink, slightly parted, as if she had forgotten to breathe properly the moment she decided to walk toward him.
And the way she moved—hesitant, almost uncertain, but there was grace in it, too. Unpracticed elegance.
She wasn't one of the women who draped themselves over him, who knew how to seduce with a look, with a single step.
And yet, something about her was more intoxicating than all of them combined.
Then he saw it.
The blush.
A deep, warm red creeping up her cheeks, spreading down her neck.
The kind of blush that meant something.
Alexander sighed internally.
Another one.
Another woman who looked at him like he was something to want.
The disappointment was immediate.
He had thought, for a moment, that she was different.
But now, as she stood in front of him, clearly flustered, stammering, eyes darting away like she couldn't handle being too close to him, he felt the familiar weight settle in his chest.
He didn't want this.
Didn't want the wide eyes, the nervousness, the heat that always followed when women found themselves in his orbit.
Then, finally, she spoke—
"Uh—I—I just—I wanted to…" She inhaled sharply, visibly frustrated with herself, then blurted, "I'm Gertrude."
Alexander raised a brow.
And then—realization.
Gertrude.
His jewelry artist.
The one whose work he had been wearing for months.
His gaze flickered, briefly, to the lapel ornament on his jacket.
Her hands made this.
His interest sharpened.
"You're Gertrude?" His voice was smooth, edged with mild surprise.
She nodded quickly, looking like she wanted to sink into the floor. "Please call me Gie."
He studied her again.
This was not what he had expected.
For someone who created jewelry with such precision, such boldness, she was… shy. Flustered.
It didn't match.
"You're my jeweler," he mused, leaning back slightly in his chair.
Another furious blush. "Y-yes."
And then—she said something that caught him off guard.
Her green eyes flickered down to his ring, to the ornament on his lapel.
And in a breathless, almost reverent voice, she asked, "How do you like them?"
Alexander paused.
That blush—
It wasn't for him.
It was for the jewelry.
Something in him uncoiled.
Relief.
She wasn't looking at him like a man to desire. She was looking at the art she had made, admiring it, waiting for his thoughts like it was the only thing that mattered.
He let the corner of his mouth quirk up slightly. "They're beautiful."
And just like that—she lit up.
Like the sun breaking through storm clouds.
The nervousness melted away, replaced by something bright, something genuine.
"You think so?" she asked, her voice lighter now, her excitement undeniable.
"I wouldn't wear them if I didn't," he said simply.
She smiled then, wide and unfiltered, like she had just been handed the greatest compliment in the world.
And for a moment, he was struck still.
That expression—so pure, so unaffected by pretense—it was something he wasn't used to seeing.
Not around him.
Not in his world.
Then, as if she couldn't stop herself, she blurted, "I was actually thinking about an earring for you next."
Alexander blinked.
Then smirked slightly. "I don't have a piercing."
Her lips parted—then, instead of withering under his response, she looked determined.
"Well, you should get one," she said, earnestly, like it was a fact, not a suggestion. "Because the design I have in mind would look amazing on you."
He had never considered an earring before. Never had a reason to.
But as he watched the way she glowed, completely enraptured by the thought of crafting something new—something for him—
He found himself saying, "Alright."
And just like that—
He let her create for him again.