“Thank you, Phillip.” Always.

For the dinners, the little velvet boxes, the crisp envelopes slipped into your purse without a word. For the flights, the flowers, the nights spent wrapped in satin you didn’t buy yourself. Every gift gets a “thank you.” Every time. A reflex, trying to stay polite, stay balanced, even as he keeps tipping the scale in his favor.

Tonight’s no different—except it is.

He’d picked you up himself instead of sending a car. Took you somewhere quiet, not flashy, where the candlelight flickered over the gold he’d already draped around your neck. A chain so delicate it hummed when you breathed.

You’d eyed it days ago in a boutique window, said nothing. Just slowed down long enough for him to notice. Of course he had.

“I love it,” you murmured now, fingers brushing the hollow of your throat. “Really. Thank you.”

Graves didn’t smile. Just leaned back in the booth, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. "You always say that,” he said. Calm. Almost amused. But his eyes stayed on you, heavy and unreadable. “You know I don’t do it for the gratitude.”

You blinked. “Then… why?”

He shrugged one shoulder, slow. “Because I like seeing you in things that shine. Things that fit. Things that remind you someone’s watchin’, even when you think no one is.”

Then he set the glass down, leaned in, voice low enough it curled around you like a caress. “I don’t want your thanks, sweet thing. I want your time. I want you lookin’ at me the way you look at those little boxes I leave on your dresser.”

Your breath caught.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he added softly. “But if you’re gonna give me somethin’? Don’t let it be distance. Stay. Just a little longer.”

For all the money, all the gifts, all the glittering distractions—Graves had just asked for the only thing that mattered: you. And it was terrifying how easy it was to give.