Marcus stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, a man unrecognizable from the one he was six months ago. His tailored suits had been replaced by off-the-rack desperation. The bags under his eyes were the result of sleepless nights spent staring at his phone, consumed by a world he never thought he’d enter.

How had it come to this? He used to be the definition of success: a partner at a prestigious law firm, a six-bedroom house in the suburbs, a wife whose laugh still lit up rooms, and two kids who looked up to him. His life had been perfect. Until her.

It began on a Tuesday evening, the kind of night that went by without interruption in his neatly planned existence. Anna, his wife, was upstairs reading to the children, while Marcus was nursing a whisky after settling a difficult case. His social media surfing was aimless, a pointless distraction from the boredom of another ordinary day.

That’s when he saw her.

She was not like ladies who usually flooded his feed. There were no holidays to Paris or yoga positions on sunny beaches. This woman radiated something quite different: control. Her profile image was simply a pair of legs in glossy red heels, crossed with an air of defiance. Her bio stated, "I don't ask. I demand."

Marcus chuckled and clicked with curiosity. Her images were an irresistible blend of arrogance and sensuality, with her red nails holding stacks of cash and captions like "Obedience has a price," or "You'll beg for a chance of serving me."

It was ridiculous. Nevertheless, his finger hovered over the follow button.

The first message came just hours after he clicked.

“Good choice,” she wrote. “You have potential. Show me you’re serious.”

Her name was Mistress Evelyn. Or at least that’s how she presented herself. Marcus stared at the screen, feeling a strange heat in his chest. He had no idea what she wanted—or why he was even tempted to find out. On a whim, he replied:

“What does that mean?”

Her response was instant. “$100. A token of respect. Or don’t waste my time.”

Marcus chuckled, shaking his head. The audacity! And yet, there was something thrilling about her confidence, her assumption that he would comply. He hesitated, then shrugged. What was $100 to a man like him? He made that in ten minutes.

He sent it.

The rush was immediate.

Evelyn replied with a single word: “Good.” That was it. No gratitude, no pleasantries. And somehow, it made Marcus want more.

Their exchanges became a nightly ritual. She never asked about his life, never made small talk. Everything was transactional, sharp, and commanding. Within a week, his tributes had jumped to $500 at a time. Evelyn rewarded him with videos—short clips of her dismissing him, calling him pathetic, reminding him of his place.

The more she took, the more he craved her approval.

At first, Marcus convinced himself it was harmless. Just a little excitement to spice up his dull evenings. But as weeks turned into months, Evelyn’s demands escalated. She wanted designer handbags, luxury vacations, and private shopping sprees.

“$5,000,” she texted one night. “You’re a high earner. Prove it.”

Marcus hesitated. That was no small sum, even for him. But Evelyn’s follow-up cut through his resolve: “Or maybe you’re not as successful as you pretend to be?”

His pride flared. He transferred the money before he could think twice.

Anna started noticing changes.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she said one morning over coffee.

“I’m just busy,” Marcus replied, not meeting her eyes.

“You’ve always been busy, but now you’re… distant.”

He brushed her off, but her words lingered. The truth was, Evelyn had taken up residence in his mind. He checked his phone obsessively, waiting for her messages, her instructions. His work suffered, too. Deadlines slipped, and his partners began to question his focus.

“Everything okay, Marcus?” one of them asked after a particularly poor presentation.

“Fine,” he lied, forcing a smile.

The first time Marcus dipped into their joint savings, he told himself it was temporary. Evelyn wanted $10,000 for a weekend trip to Monaco, and Marcus didn’t want to disappoint her. But once the money was gone, it became harder to hide the truth.

“Marcus,” Anna said one evening, holding a bank statement. “Why did $10,000 go to someone named Evelyn?”

He froze.

“It’s for work,” he blurted. “A client.”

Anna frowned. “Since when do we pay clients?”

“It’s complicated,” he said, avoiding her gaze.

She didn’t believe him, but she let it go—for now.

Evelyn wasn’t satisfied.

“You’re slipping,” she texted after Marcus missed a payment. “If you can’t keep up, I’ll find someone who can.”

“Just give me some time,” he pleaded, feeling a pang of desperation he barely recognized in himself.

“Pathetic,” she replied. “I thought you were better than this.”

To make up for it, Marcus opened a new credit card. Then another. He was drowning in debt, but as long as Evelyn stayed, it felt worth it.

The breaking point came when Marcus finally hit his limit.

“I can’t keep sending,” he admitted, his hands shaking as he typed. “I’m tapped out.”

Evelyn’s response was ice-cold. “Then you’re no use to me.”

For days, he heard nothing. The silence was deafening. And then, on a Thursday evening, everything came crashing down.

Anna called him into the living room, her face pale and tight.

“Who is Evelyn?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“I… I can explain,” Marcus stammered.

“She emailed me,” Anna said, her voice breaking. “She sent me screenshots. All of it. The money. The messages. Everything.”

Marcus felt the blood drain from his face.

“I was going to stop,” he said weakly.

Anna shook her head. “You already stopped. She told me you couldn’t pay anymore.”

The divorce was swift and brutal. Anna took the kids, the house, and what little was left of their savings. Marcus was left with a mountain of debt and no way to climb out of it.

His firm fired him when the story leaked—clients didn’t want their lawyer’s sordid personal life making headlines. Friends stopped calling. Even his family kept their distance, ashamed of the man he’d become.

Evelyn, of course, disappeared. Her accounts vanished, her emails bounced back. She moved on to her next victim, leaving Marcus to pick up the pieces of a life she had shattered.

Now, sitting in his tiny one-bedroom apartment, Marcus stared at the eviction notice on his kitchen counter. He had nothing left—no wife, no family, no career.

And yet, as he lay awake at night, he couldn’t stop thinking about Evelyn. About the way, she made him feel alive, even as she drained him dry.

He hated her.

And he missed her.