Page 97 of Money Reigns

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Later, he walks into my office with a box tied with gold ribbon.

My heart stutters.

“This is…?”

“Open it,” he says.

Inside is a white Prada purse.

Soft leather. Real gold hardware. One I’ve stared at in department store windows but never let myself touch.

I trace the logo with my finger.

“My old one was fine.”

“It wasn’t good enough.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, forcing a light tone. “Because I represent you?”

His gaze cuts into me, dark and unwavering.

“No,” he says. “Because you deserve the best.”

I look down at the purse.

At him.

I don’t say anything.

But when I walk out that evening, the Prada bag is over my shoulder.

And it feels like more than a gift.

It feels like aclaim.

Friday

He never takes.

Never needs to.

He justknows.

When to look at me.

When to touch me.

When to own me.

What I need.

And somehow, it still doesn’t feel real.

Maybe because no one else notices.

Or maybe because he’s so good at making it feel like it’s always been this way.

I tell myself it’s temporary.

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