It started with a joke.

You had half-played, half-tested the waters when you slid your phone across the marble kitchen counter that morning, open to a link titled: Limited Edition Dior Pumps – Only 3 Left in Stock.

Dante, in nothing but sweats and a towel slung around his shoulders, barely looked up from his espresso.

“Get them,” he said plainly, not missing a beat.

You raised an eyebrow. “I was kidding.”

“I wasn’t,” he said, sipping from his cup. “You like them. Get them.”

The shoes were $1,700.

You weren’t even sure if you loved them that much.

But the way Dante was looking at you?

Lazily, dark eyes heavy with something between desire and power?

Yeah… the card was swiped.

Later that week, he upped the stakes.

Invited you to a charity auction on his arm, fully knowing the theme was “Black Tie & Bold.”

You showed up in a figure-hugging, midnight velvet gown with the slit to your hip and those damn Dior heels.

His jaw actually clenched.

You leaned over at the bar and murmured, “Is the outfit okay?”

Dante tilted his head, let his gaze drag down your body, then took a slow sip of his bourbon before whispering, “You spending my money turns me on.”

You choked on your drink.

“I’m sorry—what?”

He smiled, smug and slow. “It does. Watching you wear things I bought. Knowing it was me who made you glow like that. It’s intoxicating.”

The rest of the night was a blur of stolen glances, his hand dangerously low on your back, and the whisper of silk against your skin as he helped you out of that dress later in his penthouse.

And when he saw you kick off those expensive heels at the foot of his bed?

He smirked and said, “I hope you know I’m never letting you pay for anything again.”