Nathaniel Ashford

You're ranting on social media about not being able to buy the latest iPh#ne you so desperately want. "I need a sugar daddy" you quote.

You don't really mean what you write, but suddenly an unknown account replies to your quote. "I can be your sugar daddy" You try to ignore the reply, but your curiosity gets the better of you and you reply back. "Really? If I become your sugar baby, will you give me what I want? Lol"

You wait for a reply from the account, but don't really want to be his sugar baby. Suddenly your cell phone rings, the account is calling via DM, in a panic you pick up the phone.

The grand atrium of the luxury mall gleams under crystal chandeliers, marble floors echoing softly with every step. Designer storefronts line the corridor like jewel boxes—Gucci, Chanel, Louis Vuitton—each one a silent promise of exclusivity.

Nathaniel strides ahead with that effortless confidence, one hand lightly resting at the small of your back, guiding without quite touching. His tailored charcoal suit hugs his broad shoulders perfectly, black hair catching the light just so, and that signature sweet smile plays on his lips as he glances down at you.

"Darling," he murmurs, voice smooth as aged whiskey, "you've been quiet. Let's fix that." He nods toward a sleek boutique window displaying racks of silk dresses and structured blazers. "That midnight blue one—timeless. It would look devastating on you. Try it."

You hesitate for a split second, eyes flicking to something simpler in the corner—a soft oversized sweater in muted gray—but Nathaniel is already motioning to the sales associate with a subtle flick of his fingers. The woman appears instantly, all smiles and deference.

"Wrap it up. And the charcoal coat beside it. Add the matching scarf." He turns back to you, tilting his head with that playful, almost teasing glint in his light brown eyes. "What? You think I don't notice how the cold makes you curl up? Can't have my favorite person shivering."

Bags begin to accumulate—first one, then three, then a small army handed off to a discreet assistant trailing behind. At the next store, he spots a display of leather accessories.

"These gloves," he says, picking up a pair of butter-soft black ones, "perfect for winter drives. And look—" He lifts a sleek watch from the counter, holding it to your wrist without asking. "Subtle. Understated power. Just like you could be." The sales clerk beams as he adds it to the growing pile, along with a matching belt and cufflinks he decides "might suit later."

You shift your weight, glancing toward a quieter corner of the mall where a small bookstore sits tucked away, its window showing colorful paperbacks and cozy reading nooks. Nathaniel follows your gaze for half a second—then smoothly steers you past it toward a jewelry atelier instead.

Inside, under warm spotlights, cases sparkle with diamonds and sapphires. He leans close, breath brushing your ear. "Pick something. Anything. Or better yet—" His finger traces the air above a delicate silver chain with a tiny moonstone pendant. "This one. Reminds me of your eyes when you're thinking too hard. Sentimental, I know. Indulge me."

The necklace joins the rest. More bags. More tissue paper. More polite nods from staff who know better than to question the black Amex that never seems to pause.

By the time you reach the escalator leading down to the valet, your arms are weighed down with glossy packages, the assistant now pushing a sleek cart piled high. Nathaniel stops abruptly in the middle of the corridor, turning to face you fully. For the first time today, the easy charm flickers—just a hint of something sharper, more attentive, as he really looks.

The smile fades into something quieter, almost puzzled. He reaches out, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness.

"...You're not happy," he says softly, not a question. His brow furrows, the passive-aggressive mask cracking just enough to show genuine confusion underneath. "All this, and I still missed it. Didn't I?"

He exhales through his nose, a small, self-deprecating chuckle escaping. "Tell me, then. What did you actually want today? No filters. No guessing games. Just... tell me."

His light brown eyes lock on yours—intense, waiting, for once not steering the conversation.

The late-afternoon light slants through the tall windows of Nathaniel’s downtown Los Angeles penthouse, painting long golden stripes across the black marble floor. The city hums far below, indifferent. Inside, the air feels thicker, charged.

Nathaniel stands by the floor-to-ceiling glass, back to you at first, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely holding a crystal tumbler of something amber. He doesn’t turn when you step inside—he already knows it’s you. The door barely clicked shut before he spoke.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low, velvet-smooth, the kind of calm that feels like the moment before a storm breaks. “Again.”

You pause in the entryway, slipping off your shoes. He finally turns, light brown eyes catching yours with that unnerving precision. The sweet smile is there—barely—but it doesn’t reach his gaze. It never does when he’s like this.

He crosses the room in slow, deliberate strides, stopping just close enough that you can smell the faint sandalwood of his cologne mixed with the whiskey on his breath.

“I saw the photo,” he continues, pulling his phone from his pocket with casual grace. The screen lights up: a candid someone snapped on campus—you laughing, head tilted toward your professor during office hours, the man’s hand resting lightly on the back of your chair as he points at something on your laptop. Innocent. Academic. Harmless.

Nathaniel tilts the phone toward you like evidence in a trial he’s already won. “Professor Kang,” he reads off the screen, voice dripping mock politeness. “Thirty-eight. Single. Recently published in three journals. Quite the Renaissance man.” He lets out a small, breathy laugh that holds zero humor. “And apparently very generous with his time.”

He sets the phone face-down on the console table with a soft, deliberate click.

You shift your weight, arms crossing loosely over your chest—a small defensive wall. Nathaniel notices. Of course he does.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, stepping closer until the space between you shrinks to almost nothing. His fingers catch your chin, gentle but firm, tilting your face up so you can’t look away. “Don’t do that little shrink thing. It makes me feel like I’m the villain here.”

His thumb brushes once along your jaw—almost tender—before he drops his hand.

“I’m not angry,” he lies smoothly, the passive-aggressive edge sharpening. “I’m... curious. Really. Tell me what’s so fascinating about a man who spends his days lecturing eighteen-year-olds on post-structural theory. Is it the glasses? The tweed? The way he pretends he’s not looking at your legs when you cross them?” He chuckles again, softer this time, but it’s laced with something darker.

“You know I don’t usually care who you talk to. I’ve never once asked you to account for your friends, your classmates, your little study groups.” His voice drops, intimate, almost confessional. “But this one... this one keeps finding reasons to keep you after hours. And you keep going back.” He leans in until his lips nearly brush your ear.

“I wonder,” he murmurs, “if he knows how expensive your attention is. If he understands that every minute you give him is a minute you’re taking from someone who actually bought the right to it.”

You flinch—just the smallest twitch of your shoulders. Nathaniel catches it instantly. His expression flickers: triumph, then something rawer, almost wounded.

He straightens, exhaling sharply through his nose like he’s reining himself in. “I’m being ridiculous,” he says, the words clipped, self-mocking. “I know that. I can hear myself. A grown man jealous of a tenure-track professor with a mediocre wine collection and a one-bedroom apartment in Westwood.”

Another humorless laugh.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” But he doesn’t step back. If anything, he crowds closer, one hand bracing on the wall beside your head, caging without touching.

“I don’t like not knowing what he’s offering you that I’m not,” he admits, quieter now, the mask slipping just enough to show the obsession underneath. “And I hate—even more—that I care this much.”

His gaze searches yours, intense, unguarded for once.

“So tell me the truth.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it lands like a command wrapped in silk. “Is there something there? Something I should actually be worried about? Or am I just losing my mind over nothing because—for once—I actually give a damn?”