Lovemonger

Generous with words, careful with moves. He had a voice that found its way to every ear, weaving the music they craved. A dealer of dreams, a whisperer of secrets, a true talent for charade—a man who traded in love but never staked his own heart. Only to become a character in a story he couldn't command.

A night in Cannes, he saw her dining alone. He approached with usual charm, told her his father had warned him drinking wine alone brings bad omens. She smiled, and moved to his table. They dined, talked, drank, and laughed all night, and when the bottle was empty they took another and headed for the coast.

They made love on the beach, the whole world turning. For the first time, he was the one falling. Before he reached for her lips again, he slipped off his father's watch, so it wouldn't scratch her skin. She removed her earrings. Two small surrenders, set down in the sand.

Under the moon, they held hands tight. Then, with first light, reluctant and shy, she loosened her hands and slipped away. He wondered if she had glimpsed his true face — and for once, he hoped not.

This had always been the moment he savoured — already half gone, ready for the next adventure. Not this time. He sat in his hotel room, happiness and sorrow tangled in his chest. A part whispered it was better this way. But the ache grew, until it silenced the other voice.

He reached to steady himself, and his wrist felt bare. He rushed back to the shore, but neither his watch nor her earrings were there. Someone had taken them after they left. Both gone, the way she was.

He sank onto the sand, lost, and heard a footstep behind. He turned. Their eyes met, and both smiled. Nothing else mattered.

He told his father, years later. The old man listened, then asked: "Was it worth it?"

He didn't answer. They both already knew.