(Warning: Mildly sensitive)

Sebastian

Alexis left the room in silence, and with his absence the walls themselves seemed to press closer, leaving me stranded with my solitude. I dragged myself toward the tall window, shoulders heavy, feet reluctant, as though carrying the burden of centuries.

Beyond the glass, the garden stretched alive under the faint lamplight. There, two lovers intertwined, unashamed, their lips locked as if the world had been made only for them. A raw envy stirred within me-not for their beauty, not for their youth, but for their possession of something I, despite all else, could never seem to hold: love.

I had wealth. I had beauty that drew eyes. I had power that made empires tremble. Yet, none of it weighed against that solitary truth-when measured by the currency of love, I was a pauper. Alexis, though lesser in every other measure, possessed a treasure I could not steal. A woman who adored him without reservation, who would bleed, suffer, and perish without hesitation for his sake. And me? I was still haunted by my loneliness demon, chained to its cold embrace.

I often wondered: what would it mean to love someone who made you fearless? To love a soul who stripped away every doubt, every hesitation, and made you crave eternity even while knowing death lurked behind every tomorrow?

No matter how high we climbed, no matter how much gold we counted, Alexis and I were both beggars in the marketplace of the heart. Life was short, unpredictable, and cruel. At least Alexis understood this truth, which was why he seized his chance with Sofia. Perhaps that was why I respected him so deeply, why he was one of the rare few I trusted.

He was one of my most loyal men-among the handful I could trust with my very life. Sofia, to me, was nothing. Yet the devotion her presence conjured in him was undeniable. Alexis had earned her, or perhaps she had earned him. Either way, he was rich where I was impoverished.

There were always women circling around me-too many, in fact. But they never sought me; they sought the throne on which I sat, the power etched into my name.

In the northern wing of my fortress, twenty women lived under my command. Fifteen were there only to entertain guests-beautiful, ornamental, ignorant of who I truly was. They were caged, never permitted into the heart of my domain. The remaining five were handpicked for me personally.

These five held a place that was useful but weightless. They carried no illusions, no dreams of love. They knew their purpose, executed it with machine-like precision, and left. That was why I admired them: there was no deception in their simplicity.

Like assassins, they were: present, silent, effective. They carried our demons without protest, asked for nothing more than protection and a life free of fear. And in return, they gave us fleeting relief-a false anesthetic against the aches of emptiness.

But true admiration I reserved for women like Remeta, Natasha, Aurora, Sage, and Freya-the assassins who carved their destinies with steel and blood. Masters of their craft. Terrifying in their loyalty. Unwavering so long as my empire did not rot from betrayal. Unlike entertainers, these women were alive in their own right-fierce wolves clothed in mortal beauty.

And yet... though women fascinated me, though I respected loyalty and beauty in equal measure, in twenty-eight years not one had set fire to my heart. Not one had struck me with the maddening fever that Sofia had ignited in Alexis. I longed for it, though I despised myself for longing. Alexis was a lucky bastard. That truth cut deeper than any knife.

A knock on the door snapped me from thought. A single measured tap-Rosalie. Her signal was always precise, deliberate.

"Come in," I ordered, my voice echoing in the chamber.

The door creaked open and she entered, radiant in a crimson dress that clung to her flawless frame. Her skin glowed, her thick brown hair tumbled across her shoulders, her eyes trapped the sky's light-blue clarity, and her lips looked carved by the gods themselves.

She was beauty incarnate. Yet to me, she was nothing but a tool-functional, hollow. She did not stir my heart, did not tie knots in my lungs with her smile. An exquisite form with no power over me, no fire to soothe or ignite me.

"Good evening, Master," she sang gently, head bowed like a practiced devotee.

"Pour me some wine, Rose, and place it on the table," I replied. She nodded as she accomplished the task.

Afterward, instead of any exchange of words, she disrobed in silence, stepping gracefully out of silk and shadow. She folded herself across the couch, poised and ready-trained to anticipate my desires.

I didn't undress. I didn't kiss her or worship her beauty. I simply claimed what was mine by command, by habit, by hunger that had no romance in it. My groans broke the stillness, but she remained silent, sculpted into obedience. There was no gasp, no whisper, no pleasure. Only the performance of duty.

When it was over, sweat cooled across our skin. I pulled away. For me, it was nothing. For her, it was another line in an endless ledger of service.

"Clean the room before you leave, Rose," I said coldly, already walking toward the bathing chamber.

"Yes, Master," she answered, her voice subdued and fragile.

The water accepted me. It stripped sweat from my body but could not wash away the emptiness pressing against my chest. Sex was only a mask-an imperfect plaster over a cracked wall. Temporary relief, never the cure.

When I returned, the room was spotless, Rosalie gone, her presence erased like a ghost. A glass of wine waited on the table. I drained it in one brutal swallow, lit a cigar, and reached for the intercom.

"Daniel," I barked.

He answered on the first ring.

"I will attend a banquet tomorrow. Security falls to you. Ready yourself at seven sharp-I have meetings before then. Do not fail me."

"Yes, Master," came his strong, unwavering reply.

I ended the call without farewell. Courtesy was wasted on men like Daniel. It was wasted on me as well.

I smoked in silence, ash gathering like snow in the tray. My thoughts dragged me backward. They always did. The past was a battlefield where all my victories rotted into corpses.

I tried to sleep, but whenever I closed my eyes, faces returned. Bloodied. Screaming. Twisting in the flames of memory.

Eventually, I surrendered and reached for the drawer beside my bed. The journal greeted me, its leather surface familiar under my hand. Writing remained my defiance, the last habit that tethered me to something resembling humanity.

I thought of her then-the only woman I ever adored. My mother. Her words still lingered in me, a philosophy carved into my bones. So I wrote them again, framing them in rhyme:

Alone

In birth,
In death,
In life,
You are alone.

In pain,
In suffering,
In surviving,
You are alone.

In joy,
In sorrow,
In fear,
You are alone.

In the crib,
In the coffin,
And in the space between,
You are alone.

They were her words, though I suspect she was too entangled in her own grief to grasp their weight.

I can still see her-an oval face etched with fragile beauty, a smile stretched too thin, as if borrowed. Eyes that carried an ocean of loneliness.

Closing the journal, I slipped it back into the drawer and leaned into the dark, letting it cradle me. Alone, as always.

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