“I’m not your girlfriend.”

The words come out sharp, like you’re trying to wound him before he can get the first cut in. You’re both standing in the middle of his private jet—Paris-bound, of course—and the mood has long since shifted from playful to tense. You hadn’t meant for it to escalate, but something about the way he acts like he owns every inch of you makes your heart twist.

Tony doesn’t flinch. He just leans back in his leather seat, glass of scotch swirling in his hand, those dark brown eyes locked onto yours with maddening calm.

“Good,” he says, taking a slow sip. “Girlfriends break up. Sugar babies sign NDAs.”

Your breath catches, but not in surprise. You knew the rules going in. You were given the contract, the card, the access. You took the trips, the clothes, the late-night calls where he’d pretend he wasn’t lonely. You played your part.

But somewhere between dinner in Tokyo and waking up with his hand around your waist in Malibu, things stopped feeling clean.

You cross your arms. “Then stop acting like you care.”

Tony smirks. “I don’t.”

“Then why did you cancel your meetings today?”

“Because you looked sad this morning.”

The silence after that is deafening. You stare at him, suddenly small under the weight of that casual confession. His voice hadn’t even cracked. He says it like it’s nothing. Like noticing your mood and canceling half a billion dollars’ worth of boardroom bullshit was just part of the deal.