Born To Be Your Slave

Charity Gala

Across the city, in a tower of glass and steel that pierced the night sky, Frank Thompson stood before a wall of windows. The city sprawled endlessly beneath him, but even the glittering lights of skyscrapers seemed small from his vantage point. Power had given him everything—control, respect, and unimaginable wealth—but as he looked out over the city, he felt the familiar emptiness pressing against him.

His office was silent except for the faint hum of machinery. On the sleek mahogany desk behind him, reports lay scattered—profits climbing, deals secured, empires swallowed whole. To the world, Frank Thompson was unstoppable. Yet tonight, the silence weighed heavily, reminding him of the one thing money could never buy.

“Mr. Thompson?”

The voice came from the doorway. It was Richard, his most trusted aide. A man loyal to the core, discreet, and always at Frank’s side.

“Yes?” Frank didn’t turn from the window.

“Tomorrow’s charity gala is confirmed. The Simon family will be in attendance.”

At the mention of the name, Frank’s brow arched. He knew the Simons—an old family, wealthy but waning in power. He had crossed paths with Mr. Simon in boardrooms before, a man desperate to hold on to relevance. Still, Frank had little interest in social pretenses. He disliked gatherings where smiles were masks and every handshake hid ambition.

“Do I need to be there?” he asked.

Richard hesitated. “It would… make an impression. Especially if you’re considering expansion into their sector. And, well… appearances matter.”

Frank let out a quiet sigh. Appearances. How often had he been told that? Appearances to investors. Appearances to rivals. Appearances to women who saw him as a trophy rather than a man.

“Fine,” he said at last, his voice low. “I’ll attend.”

Richard nodded and withdrew, leaving Frank alone once more.

For a long moment, Frank remained at the window, his hands buried in the pockets of his tailored suit. He thought of the endless string of women who had tried to capture his attention—models, heiresses, socialites—all of them drawn to his empire but blind to the man behind it. None had stirred anything within him beyond boredom.

He wanted more. Something real. Something true.

Turning from the window, he poured himself a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the city’s glow. He lifted it slowly, unaware that somewhere across that same city, a young woman sat by her window, whispering his name like a secret.

The night carried on, indifferent to the threads of destiny weaving tighter, pulling two strangers toward a collision neither was prepared for.