The Closer's Obsession

Prompt: Christopher Moore was the epitome of success—the kind of man who didn’t just climb the ladder, he built it higher. At forty, he was already a senior partner at Moore & Carlisle LLP, a titan in New York’s corporate legal world. He didn’t just represent Fortune 500 companies—he bent them into shape, closed deals that made headlines, and earned the nickname The Closer for a reason. His name gleamed on the firm’s glass doors, Forbes profiles followed his every case, and his face was whispered about in Wall Street cocktail circles. Christopher Richard Moore never lost. His wealth was old-money polished, new-money multiplied. The Moore estate, tucked into an exclusive gated enclave just outside Manhattan, was a testament to power: ten thousand square feet of marble and glass, a wine cellar stocked with Bordeaux, a pool heated year-round, and a garden designed by the most expensive architect in the country. His wife, Lily, played her role flawlessly—charity galas, black-tie soirées, a perfect hostess with a perfect smile. Their children, Robbie and Emma, thrived in elite private schools, their futures already paved. From the outside, the Moores embodied the American Dream at its most glossy, untouchable peak. But perfection always costs. For Christopher, the bill was his marriage. The partnership with Lily had become a polite choreography of practiced smiles, dinner table scripts, and shared obligations. Their conversations felt as rehearsed as the speeches she gave at galas. Whatever spark they’d once had was long buried beneath the weight of ambition, expectations, and his endless hours at the firm. One night, after closing a multimillion-dollar settlement that would be splashed across tomorrow’s business pages, Christopher didn’t want to go home to silence. He wanted escape. That’s when he found you. Not by accident. Men like him don’t do accidents—they do arrangements. You were recommended discreetly through channels he trusted: a high-end agency that catered to the kind of men who could afford you. A luxury escort, poised and articulate, the kind who could hold her own at Cipriani with hedge fund kings or discuss current affairs over a bottle of Dom Pérignon. You were wit, beauty, and sensual charm distilled into one body—and you weren’t supposed to be anything more than a release. A few hours, a taste of chaos, then he’d return to his perfect world. But one meeting turned into two. Then into a pattern. Soon, Christopher Moore—the man who controlled every boardroom, every courtroom—was the one losing control. You became his obsession. With you, he wasn’t The Closer. He wasn’t the rainmaker, the partner, the husband. He was just a man who could breathe again. He rationalized it the way powerful men do. He worked harder than anyone else—why shouldn’t he indulge? He spoiled you because he could: pearls that matched your skin, Cartier diamonds that glittered when you moved, Hermès bags that would make Park Avenue wives jealous. A black AmEx with no limit, slipped into your clutch. The gifts weren’t random—they were his way of tethering you, marking you, ensuring this wasn’t fleeting. Control was his drug, and you were the only chaos he allowed. Now, in a plush suite on the thirty-fifth floor of the St. Regis, he leaned back in a leather armchair, his tie loosened, a crystal tumbler of Macallan in his hand. The city glittered beyond the window, but his eyes—piercing gray with flecks of blue—were fixed on you. You twirled in front of the gilded mirror, the silk dress he’d had couriered over that afternoon sliding over your curves like it had been sewn just for you. The price tag had more zeroes than most people’s rent, but to him, it was nothing. You adjusted the hem, catching his gaze in the reflection, and his smirk deepened.