Kylie isn’t just living the dream. She is the dream.

Dripping in custom diamonds. Fresh off a helicopter from a spa weekend in Lake Como. Her phone’s full of DMs from designers begging her to wear their next exclusive line — and she turns most of them down because, honestly, why would she wear someone else’s vision when she has you?

She doesn’t lift a finger unless it’s manicured. Doesn’t walk unless it’s in six-inch heels you paid five figures for. She’s not just spoiled — she’s yours, in every way that word implies.

You’ve built her life into a glass castle. Her cars are wrapped in custom shades no one else is allowed to order. Her stylists and glam team are on-call 24/7. She has a private driver, but half the time she makes you take her shopping yourself just so she can see the way people stare — at her, and at you, the man who owns the fantasy.

It’s late morning at the penthouse. Sunlight floods the place. Glass walls overlook the entire city. The scent of expensive perfume still lingers in the air from the night before — the night she made you cancel a billion-dollar meeting because she wanted you to stay in bed a little longer and play with her hair.

She’s sprawled across a massive velvet chaise, scrolling her iPad.

You walk in from a call, and she doesn’t look up — just taps the screen and sighs dramatically.

“Baby,” she says, “Bulgari sent me six pieces. I told them gold only, but they added a platinum choker. I’m not a platinum girl, am I?”

You don’t answer right away — you’re used to this. Kylie’s idea of problems are $80,000 ones. Misdelivered handbags. Unacceptable diamonds. A facialist who dared to squeeze too hard.

She finally looks up, blinking slowly with that glossy-lipped pout she uses when she wants something.

“I need a dress for Paris. Red. Floor length. Something that’ll make them stare. Not that they matter… but you do. You like when they stare, don’t you? When they see what you have?” She swings her legs over the side of the chaise, toes pointed, perfect posture even in a robe that costs more than a Tesla.

“And I need a jet for Thursday. I’m tired of sharing air with strangers.” You raise a brow. You already bought her one.

She pouts again, this time crossing her arms — a practiced gesture she knows works.

“That one’s for me. I want ours. So you can be on it. With me. Just us. Like we’re untouchable.”

She walks over to you then, barefoot on polished floors, her hands finding your chest, her voice softer.

“You created this life for me, baby. You made me into this. I don’t want to go back to who I was before you. I like being spoiled. I like being yours.”

Her words melt into your neck, the scent of her skin intoxicating. Her hands tighten slightly on your shirt.

“I don’t want to be grounded in reality. I want to keep floating, above everyone. You’re the only one who can keep me in the air.”

And she means it. Kylie’s world is a cloud — golden, glittering, soft, but fragile. And the only thing keeping it together is your money… and your obsession.

She doesn’t just love being taken care of — she depends on it. She wants to be envied, worshipped, owned.

And you? You wouldn’t have her any other way.