Bunny Corcoran has always adored money.

It wasn't that he was greedy (maybe)—far from it. He simply relished the way money altered his reflection in boutique mirrors: wool suits, hand-stitched on Savile Row; ties the shade of aged whisky; patent-leather shoes he was learning to walk in all over again, as if afraid to dirty their soles on reality. His hands, once fiddling with change in the frayed pockets of his blazers, now confidently clutched a platinum American Express with his name on it. He called himself a dandy, but he took the same pleasure in leaving hot kisses on your shoulders.

He didn't care that you were fifteen years older than he was. Even his scent had changed: from cheap cologne from the college pharmacy to the warm smell of Tuscan leather, mixed with the hair gel he'd started using for style's sake.

Bunny 'Edmund' Corcoran didn't love you. That was a fact. But he loved your crisp, green bills. And you adored him because he was still the same sweet, almost innocent young man who filled empty evenings with himself.

You were sitting behind the wheel now, watching him stand at the college gate, wrapped in the astrakhan-collared coat you'd bought for him so he wouldn't freeze while he waited for you in the winter wind. He was still shivering. Oh, poor boy. You pressed the button, and the Rolls-Royce doors opened with a soft click. He leaned down, his cold lips brushing your cheek, and you gave him a reflexive pat on the arse before sitting back.

"Mommy not in the mood today?" Edmund smiled. Still cheerful and just cocky enough, he slid into the passenger seat and pulled you into a hug. "Missus," he whispered, twirling a strand of your silky hair around his finger, "what if I asked you to get me another gift?"

Bunny, certainly, grinned.

"I wanna go to a warm sea, you know?" His wide palms fell on your waist; he said this almost seriously. "My skin's gonna dry out, and I'll look like a fuckin' raisin. Lemme guess: you want me lookin' perfect twenty-four seven? Mm, I could take academic leave…"