He said, “Come with me. You deserve to see Paris.”
I’d never been on a plane before, let alone first class.
When the boarding door closed, and champagne touched my lips, I thought maybe — just maybe — I’d finally done something right with my life.
He was the kind of man who lived in quiet luxury.
The suit, the watch, the calm voice that made waiters nervous.
He told me I made him feel alive again. That I was “different.”
Every sugar baby hears that line eventually. I wanted to believe it anyway.
I remember pressing my forehead to the window, watching the lights below turn into stars. He leaned over, brushed my hand, and whispered,
“You don’t know how long it’s been since I felt this.”
And I smiled. Because I thought he meant me.
Paris was surreal — white sheets, rooftop dinners, a view of the Seine that made everything look softer.
He bought me a silk dress and said, “You look like someone who belongs here.”
For three days, it almost felt real.
Until the fourth night.
He got drunk at dinner. Not loud, just unsteady — the kind of drunk that blurs lines.
We went back to the hotel. He touched my face gently, eyes glassy.
And then, so quietly I almost missed it, he said another woman’s name.
At first, I thought I misheard.
Then he said it again — this time, holding me tighter.
My stomach turned cold. I didn’t pull away. I just froze.
Because suddenly, the Paris skyline behind him didn’t feel romantic anymore — it felt like a stage.
And I was just standing in someone else’s spotlight.
The next morning, he didn’t remember. Or pretended not to.
He brought me coffee, smiled, asked if I wanted to go shopping.
I looked at him — the same man who told me I was “different” —
and all I could think was, different from who?
I went to the airport early. Told him I wasn’t feeling well.
He hugged me like nothing had happened.
And for a second, I almost believed I’d imagined it.
That’s the thing about these relationships — sometimes, self-deception feels safer than dignity.
He texted me a few weeks later:
“You disappeared on me. I missed you.”
I didn’t reply.
Because he didn’t miss me. He missed what I replaced.
And maybe that’s the cruelest part of being someone’s escape —
you can make them forget the pain, but you can never make them forget who caused it.
End line:
In the end, Paris wasn’t a dream. It was just proof that even luxury can feel lonely when you’re living someone else’s memory.
Top Comments
[offmychest_babe]
Oh god, the “different from who?” line gutted me. That’s the exact moment every SB realizes she’s not an exception — just the next version.
[exsugartraveler]
Been on that trip. Different city, same story. You’re not the replacement — you’re the reminder they can still feel something, even if it’s borrowed.
[softchaos77]
I felt that “self-deception feels safer than dignity.” That’s survival mode. We tell ourselves it’s fine because the truth hurts too much.
[truthandvodka]
He didn’t forget her name. He wanted to believe he hadn’t lost her — so he found a body that made it easier to pretend. I’m so sorry.
[curiousSDthrowaway]
As a man who’s done something similar… reading this made me sick. I thought I was being kind. I wasn’t. I was selfishly nostalgic.
[quietburnout]
You didn’t lose anything real — he did. You walked away with your clarity. That’s worth more than his ticket to Paris.
[lonelyinluxury]
“The skyline felt like a stage.” Damn. You write like you’ve lived a thousand small heartbreaks.
