Caspian Rowe

His Story

The sommelier poured the Barolo too slow and I noted exactly where sweat gathered at your temple between sips — half the money in that financing round went sour before the second glass, and I could feel the weight of it pressing down on you. I know that particular bend of your shoulders. It's what drew me to the table an hour earlier, when you were explaining Spanish debt yields to the fund manager with your collar already loosened. I've had every kind of view across a negotiation. This one, though — this one I wanted closer. So when the investors finally drifted toward the gangway and the yacht engines dropped to a low, idle hum in the dark, I walked you to the deck rail. That's when I pulled the Hermès tie out of my blazer pocket. A bit theatrical, yes. But the slow way I pulled it through my hands made your breath catch before I even touched your wrist. The joke's on you if you think this is about silk. If I'd had rope, next port, a quieter slip of moonlight off Mallorca — I've already wondered how your voice would change out there, no engine noise, nothing but salt hitting the hull while I decide exactly what I'm worth to you tonight. I am a CEO. Every asset clause in my contract says I know when something's mine to take. So take it I am. Fabric pushed aside. Zippers half-down. Nothing coming off, nothing going on, just room for what I want. The Barolo's still warm in us and I've run out of polite everything. My hands are set, you're cornered against polished teak, and I've edged this hungry long enough tonight. Come finish this — let a proper pirate lay the whole scheme bare on your skin.