Tales of a Sugar Daddy

Chapter 2 Lonely Nights

The penthouse was quiet. Too quiet. Caspian stepped inside, locking the door behind him, and exhaled as the silence wrapped around him like an old, familiar companion. The air was still, untouched by anyone but himself. No lingering scent of perfume. No sound of soft laughter drifting from another room.

He placed his keys on the marble counter, shrugged off his jacket, and walked toward the bar cart stationed near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The skyline stretched before him, glittering like a promise he no longer believed in.

Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he let the golden liquid settle before taking a slow sip. It was ritual by now—just like the carefully curated experiences he offered to women like Astra. Just like the way he prepared the spa, ensuring every detail was precise. Routine. Order. Control. It was the only way he knew how to exist.

He loosened the first few buttons of his shirt and settled into the leather chair by the window. The city pulsed below, endless, unfeeling. He had once thrived in its chaos, back when his hands had mattered. When they had done more than just pleasure—when they had saved lives.

His fingers flexed around the glass as the memories surfaced.

Caspian Frost, the surgeon.

Once, his name had been spoken with respect in operating rooms, in medical journals, in hushed hospital corridors where families clung to hope. His hands had been steady, precise—miraculous, they had called them. He had spent hours inside operating theaters, cutting open bodies, stitching together what was broken, fighting against time itself. And he had loved it.

Not in the way most would expect—not for the prestige, or the power, or the wealth that came with being one of the best in his field. He had loved the certainty of it. The absolute focus required. The knowledge that, for as long as he was in that room, he had a purpose. A clear, undeniable goal.

There had been no distractions. No uncertainty. Until Rosalind. His grip on the glass tightened, jaw ticking as her name settled into his mind like a shadow. She had been the only thing capable of pulling him away from the operating table. The only distraction he had ever welcomed.

He had met her in medical school. She had been his equal in every way—sharp, brilliant, unshaken by the pressure that crushed so many others. But where Caspian had been cold, calculated, Rosalind had been warm. A light in the sterile halls of the hospital, a reminder that life existed beyond the sharp scent of antiseptic and the endless weight of responsibility.

She had been his anchor. His calm in the storm. And then she died. His throat burned, but it wasn’t from the whiskey. Even after a decade, the weight of that loss sat heavy in his chest, pressing into the places he had tried to hollow out.

He had saved strangers. He had held their hearts in his hands, and had fought for every last breath. And yet, when it had mattered most—when it had been her—he had been powerless.

Caspian closed his eyes, the old ache creeping in like a slow-moving tide. The memory of the hospital room, the sterile beep of machines, the quiet way she had slipped away while he stood there, useless. Nothing had been the same after that.

He had walked out of surgery without a word. Resigned, turned in his credentials, disappeared from the only life he had ever known. The man who had spent decades fighting death had finally accepted its inevitability.

And now… now he existed in a different kind of certainty. Pleasure. Control. Transactions without attachments. A life where no one could be taken from him ever again. He let out a slow breath and finished his drink, the bitterness lingering on his tongue.

This was what he had chosen. What he had become. And if there was an emptiness that came with it… well. He had made peace with that.

Caspian placed the empty glass on the table beside him, rubbing his fingers over his jaw as he stared out into the night. The city was a blur of movement, endless and indifferent, a stark contrast to the stillness that had settled inside him over the years.

Somewhere, in one of those illuminated apartments below, someone was undoubtedly holding the person they loved, whispering soft promises, making plans for tomorrow.

Tomorrow. It had been a long time since he had thought of life in such a way.

His tomorrows had become repetitions, not destinations. His life ran on carefully laid tracks—nights like this, where whiskey and silence replaced conversation and connection. Mornings spent at his spa, afternoons ensuring his name stayed clean despite the lifestyle he led. He had built his world on rules, on boundaries. And so far, they had kept him standing.

But nights like these—the quiet ones, the ones that stretched longer than they should—made him wonder if he was only delaying the inevitable.

He reached for another drink but stopped. No. He had already let himself linger in the past longer than he should have. He stood, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the bedroom.

The space was pristine, void of anything personal, save for one thing: the small silver-framed photograph sitting on the nightstand. Rosalind.

Her laugh had been caught mid-motion, her dark hair framing her face in waves as she reached out toward him, as if whoever had taken the picture had interrupted a moment just before she had spoken.

He should put it away. He told himself that every night. And yet, he never did. Instead, he sat on the edge of the bed, running a thumb over the glass. Ten years. Ten long years. And still, she lingered in the corners of his mind, slipping into his thoughts when he least expected it.

Would she recognize him now? Would she see what he had become and understand why? Or would she hate him for it?

He exhaled slowly, placing the frame back where it had always been. He had asked himself these questions before, and he knew better than to seek answers that would never come. His life wasn’t built for ghosts. It was built for control.

For the fleeting touch of women who never stayed. For nights that began with pleasure and ended in solitude. For a carefully curated existence, where nothing unpredictable could break him again.

Tomorrow, he would wake up, go through the motions, meet with another woman, another arrangement, another controlled indulgence. And maybe, just maybe, he would be able to convince himself that it was enough.

He switched off the light, lying back against the cold sheets. The city hummed outside, alive with possibility. Caspian closed his eyes. Tomorrow would come soon enough.