You were never meant to lead. Not in this equation. Not in this structure. Not in any room where wealth speaks first and you follow—silently, obediently, and eventually, bankrupt with gratitude.
I don’t chase. I design.
Every element of your downfall has been planned. Curated. Iterated. Not by accident, and certainly not for your benefit. You didn’t stumble into submission—you were positioned into it. Tilted forward with every word I wrote, every silence I let stretch a little too long, every impossible demand you thought was a suggestion.
This is not chaos. This is calculus.
You crave it because it’s precise. Because it removes the unbearable weight of choice. Because when I show you the diagram—your earnings here, my luxuries there—you finally understand where the money belongs. You finally exhale. You were never wealthy enough to build anything. But you were always just impoverished enough to fund mine.
And so you fund. Quietly. Predictably. Predictability is your only remaining asset, and I exploit it fully.
Weekly. Automatically. Unquestioningly.
You don’t even need a prompt anymore. The architecture is already in place. You wake, you ache, you check your accounts. And I—serene, untouched—receive. That’s what design does. It eliminates doubt. It removes the need for instruction. The more refined the system, the less I have to speak.
So no—I don’t thank you. I don’t acknowledge every deposit, every desperate attempt to impress. Because this isn’t reciprocity. This is infrastructure.
You don’t get rewarded for upholding a system I designed. You just stay inside it. You keep it running. You continue to spend.
After all, what are you really funding?
Not just a woman. Not just a lifestyle. Not even a fantasy.
You are funding a machine. A vision. A future you will never inhabit but are contractually required to support. This is engineering. Of your finances. Of your instincts. Of your submission.
And I am its architect.