Page 49 of My Only

His fingers dug into my waist, tickling me until I laughed uncontrollably.

“Come on.” He kissed my forehead as we walked toward the front door.

Hassani walked ahead of me, pulling the showroom door open.

As soon as he got in front of it, he turned with a smirk.

“After you, Queen Ayla.” He did an exaggerated bow.

“Oh, don’t be passive-aggressive,” I teased as I stepped through.

He chuckled behind me.

Hassani insisted that if we were going furniture shopping, he would pick the showroom.

And it was just like him to choose an expensive one.

Verana Interiors, in the Flatiron District of Manhattan, was nothing short of luxury.

When I said I wanted to go to a showroom, I meant one in our town upstate.

Not in the heart of the city.

But I let it slide.

I just wanted new furniture.

We had been in our house for four years, and the furniture inside was a mix of what we’d brought from our old Manhattan apartments.

I’d had my furniture forever.

I wanted our house—the one Hassani designed—to have a cohesive aesthetic, not feel like random pieces thrown together.

Over the years, we’d transformed it into a home.

Now, the missing piece?

Furniture that fit.

As soon as I walked in, I knew it would be a challenge to find something within a reasonable budget.

For Hassani, though?

There was no budget.

Money, in his mind, was printed to be spent.

And he had brought us to a place where we could probably spend it all.

Various living room setups were arranged ahead of us.

The soft overhead lighting, elegant displays, and plush seating created a cozy, upscale ambiance.

It was beautiful—but expensive as hell.

I had barely stepped a few feet inside when I heard a voice.

“Oh, hello! Welcome, welcome.”

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