He Booked me as a travel companion to Singapore but

He booked me to travel with him to Singapore. We didn’t sightsee, didn’t attend the events. We never even stepped outside the suite.

He told me it was for a gallery dinner, three nights, two events, one man who never spoke more than necessary. He booked me not as an escort, but as a travel companion. Not for touch, but for presence. He flew me in business class, not first. That already told me something: precise, not performative. We didn’t sit together. That told me even more.

Singapore was humid the moment we landed. The hotel, glass and hush, sat quietly in Marina Bay, the kind of place with no music playing and staff who recognize discretion before faces. I wore the black dress he asked for. We checked in without a glance exchanged in public, just the private understanding of people used to making things quiet. In the room, he changed out of his suit and said nothing. No dinner. No gallery. No plans. Just room service and silence.

I didn’t ask why. I never do. Some men don’t hire you to fill space they hire you to soften the air. We didn’t leave the room once. He didn’t touch me. Didn’t try to. But we shared the suite like two people who knew what it meant to carry too much noise in their heads. On the third night, he said, almost like he was talking to himself, “I needed to remember what it felt like to be next to someone without being needed by them.” I understood more than he realized.

On the way back, he booked first class for me. Still didn’t sit beside me. I didn’t ask if I’d see him again. But three days later, another booking came through. Same city. Same hotel. Same room. And this time, I packed light. No heels. No black dress. Just the soft shirt I wore that second night when neither of us said anything, but everything was understood.