He’d always seen himself as someone special, even when it seemed no one else did. He just knew he was. But now, as old age approached, no amount of projecting himself as the faithful, respected soul, no number of fast cars, nor any facade of being desired by other women he collected by the scores, a sad scavenger, could diminish the sinking reality that, for all his possessions, he was a loser, a deranged mind that could no longer find someone to worship him. He was a shriveled nut sack, slurping testosterone supplements and hitting the gym, a trust-fund infant who had never matured and was no longer seen as cute for it, now a liability, not the eagle he imagined but a vulture. Personality—none to speak of, or none that garnered any interest, being see-through and self-absorbed. It appeared that, after a certain age, being a cocky adolescent didn’t appeal to most women anymore, and playing the saintly, upstanding man was the same game all men like him used, just a drop in the bucket. Money was his only bait, an offer of security that came with chains in lieu of strings. 

He simply could not find anyone for himself where he was. They all knew him, and they all rejected him. He was not secure enough, even in his displayed narcissism, to put himself out there, to be rejected to his face in words. It was the epitome of red flags. He needed someone he knew, no matter how long ago, or, at minimum, someone easy, someone damaged, whom he knew did not have the willpower to fend off his advances, preferably both traits. And he found her. 

He’d never had any interest in her before, though he lied and told her he did. He’d had years to profess it, but it was only now, now that he realized he wasn’t as desirable as he thought that he saw her as someone who would do. He knew her history. They all did, all the ones who slimed their way into her messages, tried to charm her with their comments. She was not good enough for him to make any real effort, to spend his precious time and money going to collect, and he figured, if he just laid it on thick long enough, sparked some interest and then ignored her for a bit, only to return, to trick her head and heart that way, that he could lure her to him, away from her stability and into his world. She’d fallen for just that before, more than once, still regularly fell for it, but none of her courters was serious enough about her to follow through as yet, stringing her along. And she let herself be strung, fell into their games. The motive was simple: he was alone and she was alone, and, therefore, she must take him as he was worth more than she inherently. 

He was too stupid and arrogant to realize he had competition, if it could be called that. A handful of men who had no one to own, seeing her as an easy purchase, none of them actually knowing enough about her to have any real interest. And she let them see it that way with her deference to their constant invasions. She would never tell them to go away, not men she knew, not men with money. They used that knowledge of her, their nominal friendship, and appeals to their magical lives of privilege—privilege that had warped their souls into emotional abusers—as pretenses to set to work on her. And she let them. They all knew she could never detach herself from those she called “friends” without reaping the judgment of their friends in common. They knew they could trap her, and that’s what they did.

It was not how it should have been done. It was not real in any sense. But they had no morals, no sense of the propriety they strive to project. They were simply spoiled turds, who’d realized they weren’t as magnificent as they believed themselves to be, and she could never say no, never make healthy decisions. They knew it. And she knew it too, believing herself worth the money, because she was as spoiled as they.