For a moment, this revelation saddens me. How is it that so many people need to spend so much of their lives working that they never get to enjoy something as simple as a sunset like this?
I could feel guilty, but I choose not to. I’m guilty about enough things already.
Being here makes me wonder why exactly Viktor had to raise the rent in my building in the first place. If he’s living like this with an entire apartment building to himself, how the hell does he need more money from people like me?
Could he not rent out a few of these units and make triple what he’s charging us?
Why does he need so much space in the first place?
The whole thing seems odd to me.
Weirdest of all, what does he want with someone like me?
He’s definitely not my usual type. I typically go for men who are polite, skinny, and a little bit sexually ambiguous. They make me feel comfortable, not threatened in any way as I felt during my time as a stripper.
Viktor is a self-described alpha, and he’s got the lifestyle to prove it. He quite literally lives on top of the world. If someone had told me even a few weeks before today that I would be entertaining someone like him in my life, I would probably accuse them of calling me shallow and vapid.
No matter how hard I try to justify my attraction to him as a fleeting curiosity, there’s something about him that’s got me hooked. Even before today, I’d find myself lost in a daydream of being bent over my counter, pressed aggressively into the wood until I’m nearly blending with the grain as Viktor fucks me to completion. It’s gotten me so distracted that I’ve found myself zoning out in front of customers, returning to earth with a pink flush of embarrassment as I force myself to go back to work in my own shop.
I step into the kitchen, noting how few seasonings and spices I can see without opening any cabinets. He must not actually cook often, and why would he? Cooking might as well be for poor people. He could probably order takeout for every meal for the rest of his life without seeing a dent in his bank account.
The amount of money that Viktor obviously has is a little concerning, at the very least puzzling. I’ve met plenty of landlords, and while they’re all much better off than the average working-class peon, I’ve never seen this particular brand of glaring opulence. Not even close.
The rumors about him have been floating around my head with a particular intensity recently. I know that I can’t absorb his sins and crimes into myself when he has sex with me, but I feel more connected to him than I’d want to be if he really were a criminal. That much is true.
I’m sure he invests in stocks; he seems like the type. But despite what everybody’s overconfident finance-savvy brother will tell you, stocks won’t make you this rich. If it did, Viktor wouldn’t need to waste his time with managing properties and paying employees to do the groundwork.
I put the thought out of my head, choosing instead to indulge this rare opportunity to enjoy my alone time in a place where my air isn’t filled with my neighbor’s cigarette smoke and the sound of sirens bellowing hysterically in all directions.
I lie on the floor of the living room, sinking into the carpet and staring up at a ceiling fan that whirrs casually above me.
Even just taking the time to let the air flow over me as I inhale deeply releases the tension I’ve been carrying in my shoulders for months.
Why does Viktor seem so uptight when he lives so comfortably?
Is that truly the price of wealth?
Maybe this is what makes being a trophy wife so appealing. It’s all of the benefits without the stress.
Taking that into consideration, I begin to wonder why Viktor doesn’t have a girlfriend. He’s extremely handsome, bordering on excessively handsome, and he seems to be amassing an unthinkable amount of wealth for somebody without generational money to lean on. He speaks with a Russian accent, so I assume he’s an immigrant. He likely doesn’t belong to any of the long-standing Wallstreet empires.
So, what’s he doing all alone?
Maybe I’ll never know.
And perhaps it’s better that way. I’ve found that fantasy is always better than the truth. In this case, the truth could even get me killed, so instead of thinking too hard about it, I stare up at the ceiling until my eyelids begin to droop.
Slowly, the wine and afterglow from sex overtake me, and I fall asleep.