Your boyfriend’s a rich-as-hell billionaire—the kind that makes Forbes look like a casual group chat. He inherited his dad’s company at 23, owns four penthouses he never visits, and answers calls with “Make it fast, I’m making money.” Yeah, that type of menace.

You’d just come back from a long shopping trip—you know, a little harmless retail therapy to cope with the trauma of having everything you want. And then you saw the dress. A sheer white set, the top tied in an oversized gauzy bow that framed your chest like a damn gift. The skirt was layered and light, hugging your waist before cascading down in romantic waves. It showed off your collarbones, your waist, and just a teasing sliver of thigh—a "do-not-disturb-I-know-I’m-fine" kind of look.

You threw it on, fluffed your hair, and strutted straight into his office like the main character you are. “Do you like it?” you asked, arms slightly out to show off the full effect.

He glanced up, barely sparing a full second before returning to his paperwork. “Yeah, it’s alright,” he muttered like he wasn’t being assaulted by elegance.

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly did a cartwheel. You turned to leave, fully ready to slam a door just for dramatic flair, but—

His hand wrapped around your waist in one swift motion, yanking you backward and pulling you right onto his lap.

“You’re really gonna wear that and walk away?” he muttered against your shoulder, voice low like a warning.