Five: Silk, Steel, and Smoke

Adam Lewiston

As the morning sun poured its golden rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, the light spilled across the silk sheets tangled at my waist. I stirred, the remnants of sleep still clinging to me, only to feel the weight of an arm draped possessively over my hip. My eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the soft brightness, and there he was—his bare chest rising and falling with the rhythm of untroubled sleep.

The scent of sweat, sex, and something faintly expensive lingered in the air—perfume, maybe, or regret. The mingling of his cheaper cologne and my own, much more potent, signature scent created an unsettling cocktail.

We were both naked. Of course we were. The sheets were a landscape of rumpled linen, a testament to the frantic energy that had pulsed through the penthouse only hours before.

I turned my head, studied his face—boyishly handsome, jaw bruised from where I’d bitten him, hair tousled from the night’s exertions. His expression was soft, almost innocent in sleep. And yet, he was nothing to me. A body. A transaction. A temporary indulgence wrapped in smooth skin and desperation. Someone I'd found at a Elysium club years ago, another pretty face willing to trade company for a hefty sum.

I gently peeled his arm off me, enough to rouse him from whatever dream he was clinging to. Maybe he dreamed I loved him. Poor fool. The brief flicker of confusion in his eyes as he woke was almost… pathetic. I quickly pushed the thought away. Sentiment was a weakness I couldn't afford.

I rose without a word, stretching languidly as my bare feet sank into the thick, cream-colored carpet. It felt like walking on a cloud, a deliberate indulgence designed to buffer me from the harder realities of the world. The city yawned beneath us, distant and indifferent, framed perfectly by the glass.

"You know your way out," I said, calm and clear, my back still turned to him. My voice didn’t waver; it never did. Years of practice had honed it into a weapon, a tool, a shield. It was less of a suggestion and more of a command. He was already scrambling out of bed, a blush creeping up his neck. He knew the rules. There wasn't supposed to be conversation after the transaction.

I cleared my throat, the sound amplified in the silent room. "I already sent you the payment. Check your account."

Behind me, I heard the rustle of sheets and a groggy grunt of protest. "So that's it?" he croaked, voice coated with sleep and a growing bitterness. "You're just gonna throw me away like garbage?"

I turned slowly, tying the silk robe around my waist, the fabric whispering against my skin. The pre-dawn light filtering through the gap in the curtains cast long, dramatic shadows across the opulent bedroom, highlighting the sharp angles of my face.

"What did you expect?" I asked, brow arched. "I told you—no strings. No delusions. Yet last night, you kept begging me to love you, like some obsessed puppy thinking he could grow into a wolf."

His face twisted, pain and fury flashing behind his eyes. He stumbled upright, grabbing his jeans from the floor and dragging them on with jerky, angry motions. The sound of the denim scraping against his skin was harsh and raw in the otherwise silent room.

"I can't believe you," he muttered. "After years of serving you like some damn pet. After everything—"

"You served yourself," I interrupted coolly. "Let’s not pretend I forced you into anything. You came willingly. Repeatedly." Each word was a precisely aimed dart, meant to sting. And they did. I could see it in the clenching of his jaw.

He slammed his zipper up and pointed at me, eyes burning now. "No. Don't you dare turn this around. There were others, sure. But none of them lasted. They couldn't handle you. I did. I stayed. Through your silences, your madness, the way you'd look at me like I was nothing. I stayed. You know why?"

I didn't answer. I didn't need to. He had already laid bare the pathetic truth. The truth that fueled his anger, the truth that he desperately wished I didn't know.

He stepped closer, face flushed, voice rising like a storm. "Because I thought you'd change, that one day you'll come around. And I thought, maybe, just maybe, you'd finally become a human and not some kind of monster."

That word—change—hung between us like smoke, thick and acrid, a testament to the naivete that had allowed him to linger so long. He had hoped to mold me, to tame me, to rewrite the very essence of who I was. He had deluded himself into believing that his devotion could somehow chip away at the impenetrable wall I had built around myself.

I met his gaze, unreadable. The faint light caught the subtle gleam in my eyes, reflecting back the storm raging within him. "Then you were a bigger fool than I thought." My voice was low, a silken whisper that cut through the air like a shard of ice.

The silence was taut, ready to snap. He raised his hand, eyes wild, jaw clenched.

But before he could even think it through, before the rage contorting his features could translate into something irreversible, my reflex took over. Time seemed to slow as I watched his hand ascend, the air crackling with unspoken threats. Then, with a speed I didn't know I possessed, my fingers closed around his wrist in a vice grip, stopping him cold an inch from my face. My nails dug in, a silent warning.

"Get the hell out of here," I said, my tone low, lethal, the warmth of earlier long gone.

He stared at me, chest heaving, his wrist trembling in my grasp. He looked bewildered, as though he couldn't reconcile the man before him with the one he thought he knew. He searched my face, desperately trying to find a crack, a flicker of the fondness he craved. There was nothing.

Then, finally, I let go. The release was instantaneous, but the unspoken weight remained, hanging heavy in the air.

He took a step back. Then another. His eyes, once soft and adoring, were now glassy and furious, the hurt mixing with a potent and dangerous anger. He looked like a wounded animal, ready to lash out.

"This isn't over," he spat, voice shaking. "One day, you're going to need someone. And when you look around and no one's left, don’t say I didn’t try to be the one." The words hung in the air, laced with bitterness and a desperate, lingering hope that somehow, someday, I would regret this. That I would come crawling back.

I didn’t respond. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Just turned away, picked up my glass of whiskey from the nightstand, the one I’d been neglecting as the argument escalated. I took a sip. The bitterness on my tongue was familiar. Comforting. It was the taste of control, the taste of survival.

The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the vast space like a gunshot.

And just like that, the penthouse was quiet again—just the sun, the city, and the silence I had grown to love. The silence that didn’t demand anything of me, that didn’t try to chip away at the walls I’d so meticulously built.

I sighed, exhaling the lingering tension of the morning like it was cigarette smoke. It burned my throat, a testament to the effort it took to maintain this carefully constructed facade. That drama was over. Another flower wilted and tossed aside. Another potential connection severed before it could take root. Another man who couldn't understand that the price of admission to my world was a willingness to accept the rules, the distance, the terms I dictated.

The whiskey burned, but it was a clean, predictable burn. Unlike the messy, unpredictable burn of human connection. And in that moment, surrounded by the sun-drenched silence, I knew I’d made the right choice. I always did.

I walked with lazy confidence toward the bathroom, the silk robe whispering against my skin before sliding off entirely, pooling at my feet like the final tribute of a conquered lover. Its crimson hue was a stark contrast to the cold indifference I felt towards the night that had passed.

The moment I stepped inside, the warmth enveloped me—marble floors heated to the perfect temperature, walls clad in onyx and black-veined Calacatta gold. Every fixture was brushed brass and obsidian steel. A rainfall shower stretched like a cathedral alcove, steam curling from its mouth in welcome. This wasn’t a bathroom—it was a shrine to decadence, tailored for a man who didn’t ask for comfort; he demanded it. And received.

I turned the knob, letting the water cascade down from above, a hot, relentless stream that kissed every line of my body with reverence. It poured over my shoulders, chest, hips, thighs—rinsing away the scent of Iris, of sweat and last night’s rutting. Cleansing me.

Iris. The name made me scoff under the roar of the water. Not his real name, of course. I never asked. He was just another flower in my greenhouse. I name them all after blooms—delicate, temporary, beautiful in their briefness. And like any flower, when they began to wilt—when their colors dulled or they started to cling—I plucked them out at the root. Disposed of them.

He broke Rule One: No strings. That alone would’ve earned his exile. But it wasn’t just the rule. It was that he bored me. His desperation, his simpering loyalty—it dulled the edge. I didn’t want devotion. I wanted thrill. Danger. Something that made my blood stir.

He had stopped stirring anything but my irritation.

They never understood—they weren’t people to me. They were pleasures. Pawns. Beautiful, pliable bodies meant to serve, and nothing more. And when they failed to satisfy, I ended them. Mercilessly.

Minutes passed. I took my time. The steam from the shower had long dissipated, leaving the bathroom a tranquil oasis of cool tile and muted light. The outside world, with its clamor and compromises, could wait. Here, within these walls of imported marble and bespoke craftsmanship, I was sovereign.

Eventually, I stepped out of the shower and into the cool kiss of the bathroom air. Reached for one of the Egyptian cotton towels—white, oversized, freshly warmed by the in-wall towel heater—and wrapped it around my waist. Another went to my hair, and I rubbed it down with practiced ease, standing before the enormous mirror above the black marble double sink.

The reflection that stared back was sharp and predatory. The kind of look that silenced rooms.

I studied my face—symmetrical, angular, aristocratic. A face carved by fortune and cruelty. A face that had launched careers and crushed souls with equal indifference. But there was a shadow creeping along my jawline—just enough stubble to suggest rebellion, but I didn’t let things get unruly. I didn’t do messy. I was the standard. The benchmark. The prototype.

I opened a drawer and retrieved my grooming kit. Everything was matte black and silver, lined in precision-cut velvet. The sight of it, the cool gleam of the metal, was a ritual in itself. Erased any lingering thoughts from the boardroom. I turned on the in-wall speakers. Soft jazz, Miles Davis. Rich and slow, like bourbon poured at dusk. A soundtrack for calculated precision.

I started with my facial ritual. Cleansing balm first—thick, rich, imported from Paris—massaged in circles until my skin gleamed. I rinsed with distilled water from the small glass faucet to the side. Then came the serum—infused with caviar extract and microgold, because why not? I could afford indulgence. I was indulgence. I was excess personified.

Next, the jade roller, ice-cold from the marble tray, glided across my cheekbones and brow like a sculptor’s chisel. Every stroke was a reminder—I wasn’t just maintaining beauty. I was maintaining power. This wasn’t vanity. It was strategy.

Finally, I picked up the razor.

It was straight-edged. Handcrafted. Japanese steel. A tool passed down through generations of artisans. Lethal and elegant—like me. It felt comfortable in my hand, a natural extension of my will.

I applied the shaving cream with a badger-hair brush, the foam blooming across my jawline in thick, white swirls. Each stroke of the blade was slow, controlled, and deliberate. I carved the stubble away, inch by inch, revealing the clean, marble-smooth skin beneath. No nicks. No hesitation. Just unwavering focus.

Only perfection. Imperfection was a weakness I couldn't afford.

When I was done, I leaned forward, inspecting the finish. Immaculate. Cold. Unyielding.

Just the way I liked it.

I rinsed the blade, patted my face dry with another towel, and applied aftershave that smelled like sandalwood and old money. The scent lingered in the air like a ghost of dominance.

I stood there for a moment longer, bare-chested, wrapped in white, skin glowing under the recessed lights, and let the silence stretch. I didn’t rush. I never rushed. Let the world wait for me.

I stepped out, I didn’t bother glancing back at the bathroom—as I went straight to my walk-in closet.

The glass doors to my walk-in closet slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a space more fitting of a high-end boutique than a personal wardrobe. Recessed lights warmed to life, illuminating row upon row of tailored suits in rich Italian wool, hung with obsessive precision. Midnight blacks, stormy greys, sharp navies, and the occasional blood-red blazer for nights I wanted to be remembered in whispers.

To my left, a floor-to-ceiling wall of shoes—Oxfords, monk straps, loafers, all hand-stitched, all absurdly expensive. Polished to mirror shine by someone who wasn’t me. I didn’t touch my own shoes. That’s what staff were for.

To my right: shelves of accessories. Cashmere scarves. Ties in silks and satins. Pocket squares folded like origami. Watches—Audemars Piguet, Vacheron Constantin, Patek Philippe—all ticking away with precision, each a quiet reminder that time belonged to me, not the other way around.

And at the very center of it all stood a lacquered pedestal lined with bottles of cologne, like rare spirits on display. Scents curated over years—ouds from the Middle East, musks from Paris, notes of tobacco, whiskey, and unspoken promises. Each one designed to linger in memory long after I’d left the room.

I pulled open one of the velvet-lined drawers and selected a pair of black boxer-briefs—Tom Ford, naturally. Slipped them on, letting the towel drop to the floor without a second thought. I picked today’s suit: charcoal grey with a subtle herringbone pattern, tailored to my every angle. The fabric hugged my frame as I slid it on, the jacket fitting like armor—elegant, lethal.

The shirt? Crisp white. Collar stiff enough to slice. Cufflinks? Onyx and platinum, a subtle flex for those who knew how to read wealth properly.

As I sat on the bench to put on my shoes—black leather oxfords with a beveled edge—I glanced into the long mirror to my side. The man staring back didn’t just look like money. He looked like control. Like danger dressed in civility. A predator in silk.

I stood, reaching for a timepiece—Cartier, this time, something understated. Then chose a cologne: a Tom Ford private blend that smelled like power and perfectly veiled malice. I spritzed once at the neck, once at the wrist, and let the scent settle.

And there it was.

The transformation, complete.

I no longer looked like the man who’d spent the morning ending someone’s delusions. Now I looked like the man who would own the rest of their week.

I glanced at my watch—Cartier, silver, understated, unlike most men I crushed beneath my heel. 9:02 AM. Perfect. I was never late. Time, after all, was a luxury I mastered. Others chased it. I owned it.

I adjusted the cuffs of my shirt, gave myself one last look in the mirror. Immaculate. Unfuckwithable. The kind of man who didn’t walk into a room—he arrived. And when he did, the room adjusted to him. The reflection stared back, a predator disguised in a bespoke suit. Dark hair, perfectly coiffed, framed a face carved from granite, eyes that held the chilling glint of ambition and the cold calculation of a seasoned chess player.

With that, I stepped out of the walk-in, the glass doors whispering closed behind me as if they feared the sound of defiance. The scent of Italian leather and sandalwood clung to the air, a testament to the life I’d meticulously crafted. A life built on ruthlessness and an unwavering focus.

Each stride across the penthouse was deliberate. Polished black floors reflected the morning light like obsidian, doubling the imposing figure. The penthouse itself, a sleek, high-altitude sanctuary of modern luxury, was silent again, as it should be—no more groaning bedframes, no more desperate declarations. Just quiet dominance. This morning's fleeting distraction, now airbrushed from existence. I passed the art installations hanging on pristine white walls—originals, of course—pieces that cost more than most people’s mortgages. A Rothko, a Basquiat, a Warhol – each a symbol of conquered territory, a silent trophy.

As I approached the elevator door, it opened without a single button pressed. Facial recognition. Custom tech. The machine knew better than to make me wait. Servitude, absolute and unwavering. It was the only language I understood.

I stepped in.

Polished steel walls reflected fragments of my silhouette as the elevator descended in velvet-smooth silence. The city began to come into view through the glass panel. Sprawling, glittering, unaware of the storm about to step onto its streets. Skyscrapers stabbed at the sky, monuments to avarice and ambition, but I saw them as pawns in my game, pieces I could move, manipulate, and ultimately, own.

The elevator dinged, the sound swallowed by the thick carpeting and soundproofed walls. It was a lonely sound in the otherwise silent tower, a testament to my isolated existence at the pinnacle of power. The doors parted into the private garage below, where my car waited like a loyal beast at rest.

And there he was—James. My butler.

Clad in a bespoke black suit, not a wrinkle in sight, posture like a soldier, eyes already fixed on me the moment the doors slid open. His presence was a comforting constant, a symbol of the order I meticulously cultivated in my life.

“Good morning, sir,” he said with a respectful bow of the head, opening the rear door of my matte black Mercedes Benz. “The city seems especially dull today. A pity.”

I smirked. The city was always dull. It was filled with sheep, oblivious to the wolves prowling amongst them. “Then let’s give it something to talk about.”

He gave a subtle smile, trained and controlled, the kind that only reached his eyes. “An excellent plan, sir.” He closed the door behind me as I sank into the leather interior. The scent of rare leather and my cologne mingled in the air like old friends conspiring. The comforting aroma was a reminder of my control, my influence in a world where others were just trying to survive.

As the engine purred to life and we pulled out onto the private drive, the massive wrought iron gates whispering open at our approach, I pulled out my phone. A single message blinked on the screen:

“Meet me at the Club, Tonight.”

It was from Conrad. Always cryptic, always demanding. He knew I abhorred unnecessary communication, yet he persisted. I leaned back, resting my head against the leather, fingers tapping against my thigh. Conrad would get his meeting tonight. After all, I valued my time. This better be a good business.

The city began to blur past the tinted windows. The dull grey buildings faded into a kaleidoscope of colours as James skillfully navigated the traffic. I closed my eyes for a moment, the city's cacophony fading to a dull hum.