Madonna leaned back, crossing her arms, her eyes flickering like someone who had heard every compliment, every judgment, a thousand times before.
Yugo Joe: “You think lust is the only language men speak to you. That’s why you wear it like armor. But that’s not what I want. That’s not what my uncle wants either. We’re not here for your body, Madonna—we’re here for your mind.”
She tilted her head, a faint smile playing at her lips, half defense, half curiosity.
Madonna: “My mind? You don’t know how many say that just to get closer.”
Yugo Joe: “I know. But most of them are sycophants, feeding off you, buying and selling your image like perpetual commerce. That’s not love. That’s not even respect. Real love sees you stripped of all that—fame, scandal, money—and still wants you. My uncle believes that. I believe that.”
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what to say. The silence between them felt heavier than applause.
Madonna: “So what is it you really want? Another deal? Another photo-op? Another notch on the Madonna story?”
Her tone was sharp, the kind of blade forged from years of people wanting pieces of her, never the whole.
Yugo Joe stepped forward, shaking his head.
Yugo Joe: “That’s just it. Everyone sees you as a story, a product, an empire. They want your body, your brand, your fire—but not you. Not the woman who doubts, who dreams, who gets lonely. Lust is what you give them because you think it’s all they’ll accept.”
Madonna looked away, staring into her wine like it might defend her.
Madonna: “And what makes you different? Men always say that until they get what they want.”
Joe’s uncle finally spoke, his voice low, weathered by years of teaching and disappointment.
Uncle: “Because what we want, Madonna, is rarer than desire. We want your mind. We want to know what keeps you awake at night, not what keeps the tabloids alive. Real love doesn’t measure itself in record sales or magazine covers. It doesn’t use you for perpetual commerce. It endures.”
Madonna laughed softly—bitter at first, then almost fragile.
Madonna: “Real love. Do you know how long it’s been since anyone even said that to me without an angle?”
Joe sat beside her now, not close enough to intrude, just close enough to be heard.
Yugo Joe: “Maybe that’s why you’ve been waiting. For someone who sees the woman, not the myth. You don’t have to perform here. Not for me. Not for him. Just… for yourself.”
The room grew quiet. Outside, the city buzzed like a machine feeding on itself. Inside, the air was still, charged with something she had almost forgotten existed—hope, stripped bare of contracts, commerce, and sycophants.
And for the first time in years, Madonna allowed herself to imagine that love—real love—might not be a fairy tale after all.
