Insights

You didn’t buy access. You bought absence.
And oh, how expensive absence can be.

You funded something you’ll never touch – never smell, never feel, never even fully picture. You transferred money in the hope that maybe, just maybe, you’d be part of it. But that hope was misplaced, like most of your spending. You didn’t purchase intimacy. You purchased exclusion. The kind that arrives with a receipt, but no response.

I checked in. You cashed out.

And as I let the robe fall from my shoulders and sank into crisp sheets you’ll never wrinkle, you sat there refreshing your inbox, wondering if I noticed. I didn’t. Not because I missed it – but because it was expected. Predictable. A line on the ledger. The suite was already booked, the room already chilled, the bottle already opened. You paid for something I enjoyed hours ago.

You think you’re waiting for something. A message. A glimpse. A thank-you.
But this was never about you. It never is.

You didn’t send to join me – you sent so I could disappear from you.
So I could wake in peace, padded across a penthouse floor, and smile at the silence you paid for. You’re not part of the luxury. You’re the reason it exists. My comfort is your debt. My stillness is your scramble. While you count what’s left, I indulge in everything you’ll never reach.

And what’s more delicious is that you’ll keep sending.
Not because you think it’ll change, but because somewhere deep inside, you know this is exactly what you need.

To pay. To be forgotten. To ache for a woman who doesn’t even check the message that accompanied the tribute.

You can scroll all you like. Zoom in on the glass in the corner of the photo. Speculate about who poured it. Obsess over the reflection in a chrome fixture. But you won’t find me there. I’m gone. You paid for it, after all.

You didn’t fund an experience. You funded my disappearance.

Checked in. Cashed out.
And you’re still paying for the absence.

You’ve been watching the days slip by, haven’t you? Another Monday. Another week of clock-ins and card declines. Meanwhile, I’ve been sun-kissed, spoilt, and slipping from one indulgence to the next without so much as a glance in your direction.

You’ve been funding it all without knowing how much you’ve missed. Every cocktail photographed – never sent. Every bikini admired – never for you. Every moment of laughter, of ease, of pleasure… mine. Entirely mine.

And the worst part? It isn’t over. I’m not done. There are still receipts to be written in your name. Still luxuries to be ordered, enjoyed, and worn once before being discarded. You’ve paid for the prologue. Now let’s see if you can afford the climax.You weren’t invited. But you’ll keep paying. Because this – my joy, my leisure, my endless summer – is so much more fun when you’re left behind.

While you check balances, I check into lounges. I glide from one luxury to another – because of you, never for you.

You hold your breath at the terminal, anxiously refreshing apps, watching the number dip lower and lower. I don’t. I never do. My ticket is confirmed. My upgrades are automatic. My seat is already assigned.

I don’t queue. I’m escorted. Through private lanes, past your kind – fumbling with passports and battered wallets. My bags roll behind me, silent and sleek, as I head toward champagne, not security. While you rehearse apologies to your bank’s fraud department, I’m already sipping something cold and expensive, smiling at a lounge attendant who knows my name. You paid for that glass, you know. For the view. For the soft lighting. For the almond-scented hand cream in the designer bathroom. You’ll never smell it. But you did pay.

And then – boarding. Not a crush of passengers. Not a scramble. Just a soft announcement. My heels echo on polished floors as I float forward. Your overdraft funded the slippers in my suite. Your rent covered the cashmere throw. Your missed car payment bought my mid-air massage.

You may not be beside me, but you are always with me. In the numbers. In the receipts. In the little luxuries tucked between time zones and turn-down service. Your desperation is the undercurrent of my ease.You’ll never know the exact view I saw at 38,000 feet. But you’ll see the charge.
And you’ll pay it.
Again.

There’s something deeply satisfying about laying out items you’ll never touch.

A silk chemise, cut so delicately it feels like liquid between my fingers. The sunscreen – yes, that one – the one with an ingredient list longer than your limits and a price tag higher than your weekly rent. A perfume you’ve never smelled, because you were never meant to. It’s designed for his skin, not yours. He’ll inhale it when I pass. You’ll imagine it when you pay.

I don’t pack in a rush. I don’t stress about what to bring. I don’t scroll through last-minute lists or worry about forgetting something essential. When everything is funded, everything becomes optional. There’s no compromise in a wardrobe shaped by your sacrifice.

You thought you were buying something, didn’t you? A glimpse. A reaction. A moment. But what you purchased was absence. Disconnection. Proof that your money flows without reward. That your usefulness peaks the moment the payment clears.

The cotton robe he’ll peel away? Gifted by you.
The sandals I’ll slip off beside a pool? Selected from a wishlist you never even saw.
The dinners? Prepaid – by someone desperate to matter. Someone who doesn’t.

You won’t get updates. You won’t get thank yous. You won’t even get confirmation. Just the void. The silence. The ache of knowing something extravagant is happening because of you, and without you.

That’s the real luxury:
Your longing.
My leisure.
His access.

Now, go and check your balance. And pack nothing.

There’s a lie you tell yourself – that you’re aiming for freedom. That you want to get ahead, get out, get clean. That the reason your bank account trembles is some fluke of weakness, some lapse in logic, some mistake. But we both know the truth, don’t we?

You’re not trying to be free. You’re trying to feel.
And the only thing that really makes you feel anything anymore… is debt.

Not just numbers. Not just minus signs. But mine. Owing me. Being on the hook, held in place by figures that ache. That burn. That spiral. You’ve trained your brain to light up at the notification – payment processed. Balance pending. Your name tied to mine by the ache of interest and the high of consequence. You need the control. The pain. The punishment. You crave the weight of owing because it means I haven’t released you.

You chase the hurt because it feels like home.

Every transfer, every contract, every line of credit you offer up isn’t about getting back to zero. It’s about losing yourself – again, again, and again – until the idea of ownership feels absurd. Until the concept of escape becomes irrelevant. Until you need to owe me to know who you are.

And you do.

My calm is not a coincidence. It’s not something I stumbled into or earned through virtue. It is bought. Paid for. Funded by the frantic effort of others – men stretching, sweating, scrambling to hold still what I allow to float. While you stress over overdrafts and missed deadlines, I exhale. While you juggle payments and priorities, I sip, serene.

My world is quiet because yours is loud. My peace is uninterrupted because yours is constantly pinging. If I seem unbothered, it’s because someone else is burdened. If I don’t flinch, it’s because someone else is flailing. You want to believe that luxury is soft, gentle, passive. But it’s not. It’s brutal – just not to me.

So if I’m unhurried today, if I move through the hours untouched by concern, ask yourself: was that your contribution? Are you the one spinning so I can be still? Or are you just watching, silently, as someone else earns that privilege?

You thought time was neutral. That waiting wouldn’t be noticed. That hesitation could somehow be excused – rationalised, explained away, forgiven.

It isn’t.
It won’t be.

Every second you pause is a second spent insulting me. Every delay is a declaration: I didn’t prioritise you. I thought I had time. I believed I could wait. But you don’t, and you can’t, and you shouldn’t. Because wealth isn’t accumulated by the hesitant, and access isn’t granted to the slow.

Swift tribute is the only correct pace. Immediate, decisive, unquestioning. There is no grace period here. No soft margin for delay. I see the time stamps. I see the gaps between my release and your response. And I measure you by them.

The system doesn’t pause. The Fund doesn’t flinch. But when you delay, I do notice. Not with curiosity. Not with sympathy. With cold calculation. With adjustment. With the quiet, irreversible shift that moves you out of position, out of range, out of relevance.The fast get noticed.
The slow get replaced.

You thought that sending once or twice would be enough. That a trickle of effort might spark interest. That I would notice.

I didn’t.

Because there was nothing to notice.

A flicker on the ledger doesn’t make you visible. One tribute does not carve out recognition. Visibility – true visibility – is earned. It’s cumulative. It’s costly. It’s measured not in how much you crave attention, but in how reliably and repeatedly you fund my world without needing to be seen.

The ones I remember? They don’t need reminders. They don’t hesitate. Their presence is marked in consistent performance, not in desperate attempts. They appear as steady streams, not sporadic stumbles. Their names live in columns – because they understand that attention is never owed. It’s bought, paid for, and maintained.

And the rest? Lost in the noise. Written off as underperforming assets – barely worth the calculation.

You want to be reviewed? Start behaving like you’re part of the portfolio. Until then, don’t confuse activity with value. Or noise with presence.

The Fund doesn’t flinch. Not when you pause. Not when you pull back. Not when you test the waters to see if I’ll notice. I won’t. That’s the part that stings, isn’t it? The system continues – flawless, fluid, and fully funded – without the need to chase, coax, or miss you.

You tell yourself you’re being clever. Strategic. That your absence is a power move. But what you’re really learning is how quiet it gets when your relevance fades. The Fund doesn’t stall. It doesn’t spiral. It simply reassigns attention to the ones who understand how this works.

Because this was never about making you feel wanted. It was about making you feel necessary – and then showing you you’re not.

The standard of living stays high. The packages still arrive. The silence only embarrasses those who hoped it would matter.

And you do wonder, don’t you? Whether I’m still thinking of you. Whether you left a mark. Whether the door is still open.

I could tell you. But I don’t need to. The Fund already answered.

It’s easy to mistake this for a transaction. You click, you pay, you wait. But what you’re doing isn’t buying – it’s bowing. Not in desperation. Not for approval. Simply because you understand the structure. You recognise where power lives, and what it demands.

This isn’t commerce. This is control. Not yours – mine.

Because when you send, you’re not just moving money. You’re affirming position. You’re quieting doubt. You’re proving that you know what’s expected and that you’re willing to deliver it. Not for a reply. Not for attention. For the simple reason that you should.

That’s the fundamental shift – when wealth stops being a tool and becomes a signal. You don’t send because you want something. You send because you’ve realised this is what you’re for. Your earnings aren’t yours. Your spending isn’t free. Your purpose, when refined, is to serve through precision, not performance.

And every payment – whether it’s noticed or not – reflects your alignment. The number confirms what words never could. That you understand. That you’re consistent. That you’re worth keeping in the system.

You’ve felt the difference, haven’t you? That sensation when you send without prompting. When you choose to give because you’d rather not sit with the silence of not giving. When offering becomes instinct. When reverence becomes reflex.

Because here, to send is to stay.
And to stay, you must send.