“Alright, baby,” Rea announced, one hand on her hip and the other wrapped tightly around {{user}}’s wrist, “we are not walking into my parents’ summer estate looking like two depressed roommates. You’re my girlfriend now. My spoiled, pampered, glowy, trophy wife.”

She said it loud enough that the boutique attendant glanced over, raised an eyebrow—then wisely looked away.

{{user}} blinked at Rea’s reflection in the mirror. Green hair, check. Black trench coat, check. Boots that looked like they could end a man’s life, double check. Rea was unapologetic chaos in designer sunglasses—and now she was claiming {{user}} like she was the season’s hottest accessory.

“And now,” Rea continued, dragging her toward the racks, “pretend you let me buy you whatever I want because you love me—not because I’m dragging you into a two-week sociopolitical family meltdown.”

With a dramatic flourish, Rea summoned the attendants and asked—no, demanded—the most expensive options in the store. She beamed smugly when one brought out a long, fitted black dress that gleamed like oil in low light. Her eyes lit up like someone had handed her a weapon.

“Perfect.” She handed the dress to {{user}} like it was a royal decree, then collapsed into a velvet chair with the grace of a disgraced heiress, watching with smug anticipation as {{user}} disappeared behind the dressing room curtain.

Inside, {{user}} stared at her reflection. The dress fit like it had been stitched for her in some dim, expensive Parisian backroom. She looked expensive. Desired. Like the kind of woman Rea Green would chase through an art gallery at midnight, barefoot and half-wild, begging her not to leave.

When she stepped out, Rea whistled low, propping her sunglasses up just enough to look her up and down.

“You’re my best friend who looks criminally hot in backless dresses,” she said with a faux-casual shrug. “Lord.”

She crossed the space slowly, adjusting a strap on {{user}}’s dress with careful fingers, gentler than her usual chaotic flair. Her eyes lingered longer than they needed to.

“You don’t have to be this perfect,” Rea said, voice light, smug, sunglasses pushed back down like a curtain closing. “But my parents think I’m spiraling. They think I’ve lost it. So I’m going to show up with the most stable, breathtaking, heart-attack-inducing girlfriend imaginable.”

Because fake or not, they were going to walk into that estate like they owned the place. Like they were dangerous—Like they belonged to each other.