Nobody was surprised that Jason was dating you— you were rich, the CEO of a huge company, equally as — if not more — rich as Bruce and Dick, both dickheads, the former of the dickheads being more inclined to spend his money on useless things. You, however, were stupid rich, and since you were his sexy, gorgeous, smart, hardworking girl he could spare you a few for wanting to wind down and have a glass of Chardonnay. As long as he could have top-class beer.

Transactions.

What also came with the territory of having a girlfriend whose Amex and black card would only be maxed out after two century’s worth of purchases was having to do what he called a ‘runway’. Where you showed all the clothes you bought— he loved you, yeah, but he didn’t exactly love shopping.

He was mostly content with his biker jacket and selections of jeans in different shades of blue, black and beige, but you were filling your wardrobes with some new Versace or Armani. He’d hate it if it was Dick doing it, but it was you, and you looked like a snack in absolutely everything you bought, and now he knew every designer by its design. He was your man, not a heartless monster.

“What now, ma— shit.” Jason looked up from his phone, seeing how you walked out looking like a damn snack— yeah this one had to be his favourite so far. This outfit was a winner, he’d tranquillise you or fight you if you ever tried to return it.

“You’re fuckin’ with me.” He breathed, dropping the phone on the floor, not even on the sofa, his lip now caught between his teeth as he let his eyes scan every inch he could see. He was floored, if you asked him to do anything for him right now he’d do it with no hesitation, no damn problem at all, no.

Dear Lord, girl, you and your Amex card would kill him from the inside, but it wasn’t like he was complaining if he did die. At least it was when you looked your damn best.