Eleanor had been in Dubai for two weeks. Two weeks that felt like both an eternity and the blink of an eye, a strange warp in time that left her reaching for a calendar she'd never bothered to hang.
Time moved differently there. The nights bled into one another, indistinct and bright, stitched together by music that thumped through her bones, champagne that tasted of nothing but expense, and rooms filled with people who measured worth by proximity to power. They were the kind who dropped names like currency, whose eyes scanned every room for someone more important to speak to, whose laughter was sharp and performative. She no longer tried to remember the names of the hotels or the rooftops or the private villas, they all blurred into a single landscape of marble, gold, and floor-to-ceiling glass. There was always another car waiting, its engine purring at the curb, a driver who never met her eye. Another dress laid out on the bed, wrapped in tissue paper. Another party promised, framed as an "opportunity", but feeling more like an obligation she couldn't afford to refuse.
Faisal had rented her a hotel suite on the Palm.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that curved around the room, framing the Arabian Gulf like a painting. Pale stone that stayed cool under her bare feet even in the midday heat. White linen that smelled of something expensive she couldn't name. A view designed to remind her that she was somewhere elevated, above consequence, above routine, above the small, grey life she'd left behind in London. From up there, the city looked like a constellation of human ambition, skyscrapers piercing the sky as if trying to touch the sun. She would stand there in the morning, coffee in hand, watching the yachts glide across the water, and wonder if this was what freedom felt like, or if it was just a more gilded kind of cage.
He introduced her as his girlfriend. But not always. Sometimes by name only. She didn't know what the difference was, but she learned to read the context like a map. At business dinners with his partners, it was girlfriend, a mark of stability, a trophy to set beside his power. At the wilder, after-hours gatherings in private villas, it was just Eleanor, a name that hung in the air like an invitation, even as his hand never left her back. This is Eleanor, he would say, pushing her forward as though putting her on display. Sometimes his arm would wrap around her waist, his hand resting just below her ribcage, a silent claim.
Sometimes his fingers traced circles through the fabric of her dress, a reminder of who held the strings. Men would grin, nod, clap him on the shoulder as if she were proof of something won, a prize he'd earned through wealth and influence, something no one else could afford.
She learned quickly how to stand just right. How to tilt her chin so the light caught her cheekbones, how to keep her back straight, but not stiff, how to hold herself like a piece of art in a gallery, to be looked at, but not touched. How to smile without encouraging them, a small, closed-lip curve that said I'm here, but I'm not yours. How to accept compliments without appearing available, thank you, that's very kind spoken in a voice that was warm enough to be polite, cool enough to be final. Some of the men were blatant, their greed written all over their faces. They had murmured offers in her ear, their breath hot and smelling of cigars and whiskey; come see my yacht tomorrow, or I could get you a table at that restaurant you mentioned, name your price. Their hands had brushed too close, grazing her thigh under the table or trailing down her arm as they spoke, invitations extended with a certainty that suggested they were rarely refused.
She declined them all.
Not out of loyalty.
Out of calculation.
She understood the balance. She had always understood it, had learned it young, watching her mother being beaten up almost every night, that every kindness came with a price tag, every gesture of love tied to an expectation. Desire could be leveraged, but only if it was controlled. If she gave in to one man's advance, she would lose the one thing that gave her value in this world: his exclusivity. She did not want to jeopardise what she was building. He was wealthy enough to give her the life she wanted. The travel, private jets to Paris and weekends in St. Barts The clothes, dresses from designers whose names she'd only ever read about, jewelry that weighed heavy on her skin but made her feel untouchable. The freedom from smallness, no more being the one who waited.
That was what mattered.
The parties, though, were relentless. Black tie one night, white beach wear the next. She wore what he chose, dresses that clung to every curve, fabrics that shimmered and let through the light, leaving just enough to the imagination to keep them watching. He would tilt his head, appraise her from head to toe, adjust a strap himself as if she were something he owned, something he needed to perfect before showing her off.
"You look better when you let me choose your dress," he told her once, his fingers tightening briefly at her arm, a flash of irritation in his eyes when she'd hesitated to put on the silk gown he'd laid out.
She smiled.
It was easier. Easier to let him decide, easier to be the person he wanted her to be, easier to trade her autonomy for the life she'd dreamed of.
His moods shifted without warning. In public, he was expansive, charming, his laugh booming across the room, his hand or arm around her a symbol of possession that other men seemed to admire. They would look at him, then at her, and nod in approval.
In private, though, the tone changed. The charm fell away like a mask, revealing something colder, harder. He criticised her. Her posture, stand up straight, you look like you're slouching. The way she spoke to others at parties, don't give your opinions, people don't care what you think. He told her she talked too much, that she drew too much attention to herself. Then that she was dull when she went quiet, that she was no fun to be around. "You should remember," he said one night, sitting on the bed in her apartment, his voice low, unamused, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I could replace you very easily."
She didn't argue. She had heard it before, in other rooms, from other men. It was the same threat, dressed in different clothes.
She had never believed relationships were built on affection. Affection wore thin with time, with disappointment, with the weight of everyday life. Leverage did not. It grew stronger the more you nurtured it, the more you understood how to use it. This was no different from any other arrangement she had made, only louder, richer, more visible. It was a transaction, plain and simple: her presence, her beauty, her silence in exchange for security, luxury, freedom.
When he implied she was paid for her presence, over dinner one night, his voice laced with irony, "I suppose I'm paying for the best view in Dubai right now," she let the comment pass. When he laughed while telling his friends about how much she cost him, listing off the price of her wardrobe as if she were a car or a piece of real estate, she reminded herself that cost was the point. No one complained about an investment unless it stopped delivering value. And she intended to deliver, to be the perfect accessory, the perfect companion, the perfect return on his money.
A week in, he rented her an apartment.
Not asked. Decided. He had shown up at the hotel with a key, "The Palm is too far from the city," he'd said, as if she'd ever complained. "This is better."
It was sleek and high above the city, on the fortieth floor of a tower that pierced the clouds. All glass and marble and silence. The kind of silence that felt heavy, that made her want to turn up the music just to fill it. A place designed to impress visitors and discourage comfort. There were no soft cushions, no warm colours, no traces of the person she used to be. Her wardrobe filled quickly. Boxes arrived at the door every day: bags from Hermès, shoes from Manolo Blahnik, coats from Chanel, all delivered without receipts. Shoes lined the floor like trophies, each pair a reminder of what she'd traded to be there.
She liked that part.
She liked being dressed. Being displayed. Being seen. She liked the way heads turned when she walked into a room, the way people whispered her name, the way she felt like she was finally, after all these years, taking up the space she deserved.
The parties continued. The men continued to look, their eyes following her as she moved through the room, their offers growing bolder with each passing night. He continued to monitor, who she spoke to, how long, whether she laughed too freely, whether her hand lingered too long on someone's arm.
He called her careless when she drew attention, his voice sharp with jealousy. He called her ungrateful when she questioned him, when she asked why she couldn't go out alone, why he got to decide every detail of her life.
She told herself this was the price.
Everything came with one. The price of freedom was submission. The price of luxury was silence. The price of being seen was giving up the right to be herself.
She did not think about her children.
Not because she couldn't, but because she chose not to. They were tucked away in a corner of her mind, a box she'd sealed tight and hidden from view.
Thinking about them or mentioning them complicated the narrative. It made her question what she was doing, made her wonder if the life she was building was worth the distance between them. It introduced questions she had no interest in answering yet; Do they miss me? Do they understand? Will they forgive me? There was no urgency. They were grown enough
They were well provided for, someone else would handle the emotional parts, their father, their friends. She didn't have to be the one who held their hands through heartbreak, who celebrated their victories, who sat with them in the quiet moments.
She deserved this time.
She had given enough already, years of compromise, of being overlooked, of living in a space she no longer wanted to occupy. If this version of happiness required a quieter version of herself; a version that didn't ask questions, that didn't make waves, that didn't think too hard about the past, she could manage that. She had always known how to adapt. She had learned to bend without breaking, to survive without surrendering, to find a way to get what she wanted even when the odds were stacked against her.
Relationships were transactional. Love was a myth people used to excuse lack of balance in a relationship, a story they told themselves to make the unfairness feel bearable. She had no time for myths. She dealt in facts; in bank accounts and wardrobes and apartments in skyscrapers. In the knowledge that she was in control, even when it looked like she wasn't.
She stood one evening at the window of her apartment, the city lights sprawling beneath her like a promise, a promise of more, of everything she'd ever wanted.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table, a message from Faisal popping up on the screen: Wear the red satin dress with the low back. Eight o'clock sharp. No questions.
Eleanor picked up her bag, the black Birkin he'd given her for her birthday, the one she'd never dared to imagine owning, and checked her reflection once more in the full-length mirror. Her hair was pulled back in a clip, her lips painted red, her eyes lined with kohl that made them look darker, harder. She looked like someone else. Someone who belonged here.
Whatever the cost, she would not walk away empty-handed.