my mom once told me the story of a man who was born in those "old money" families of calcutta. Rich, intelligent, generous,and too beautiful for a man, he is the toast of the bong soceity, till his father dies. Then rumours start circulating that there isn't so much of that old money left. He has of course never been trained to do anything, in true zamindari style. The creditors start asking for their pound of flesh and most of his friends start backing away. He smiles, heartbreakingly of course, through it all. Pays back every creditor and quells these rumours. Borrows some money from his best friend and hosts a huge lavish party where he invites everybody, his friends, his foes, even the whisperers who say he is doomed. At the height of the party he announces that he is going to england and that he never coming back. the best friend worries, and curses his own naivety. A month later he receives an envelope. In it is the money and a letter. It says "You trusted me when no one else did and when I had nothing. Nothing except my own body. So i sold that too, to the highest bidder in England's organ market. The money will reach you even though i'm dead. my solicitors in London will make sure of it."

Protagonist is handsome, doomed and end is macabre...ergo he lingers in some corner of brain.