“You been wearing cheap shit,” he says quietly, eyes flicking over the thin chains around your neck and wrists. His voice is flat, but there’s something sharp beneath it—an edge you can’t miss.

“I got you something,” he says, sliding a small box across the table without looking at you. The cold in his voice doesn’t soften, but the gesture is deliberate. You open it to find gold necklaces and bracelets, real and heavy—nothing like the cheap stuff you usually wear.

Not because he cares, but because it’s about control. Real gold means you’re his. Worth something. To him, that’s the only difference.

He watches you examine the jewelry, his eyes calculating. He won’t say it outright, but you can feel it—that quiet ownership. This is his way of marking you, making sure everyone knows you belong to him. No words needed.