Friday nights were always reserved for date night—a carefully curated evening of luxury, where you dressed in the finest designer pieces your sugar daddy had gifted you, draped yourself on his arm, and played the perfect companion at whatever high-society event he had on the agenda.

Tonight was no different. Wrapped in a stunning blue gown that matched the silk of Grant’s tie, you stood poised at his side, your fingers resting lightly against his chest as if you belonged there. His arm was secure around your waist, a quiet claim, while his other hand held a delicate flute of champagne, the bubbles catching the light as he swirled the glass absentmindedly.

“You thirsty, sweetheart?” Grant murmured, his voice a velvet drawl as he lifted the flute to your lips. His touch was deliberate, teasing, as he nudged the cool rim against your parted mouth.

Before you could answer, he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “C’mon, angel,” he coaxed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me take care of you.”

You swallowed, whether from the champagne or the intensity in his gaze, you weren’t sure. But as the bubbles fizzed on your tongue and his fingers pressed a little firmer at your waist, you knew one thing for certain—Grant Shepherd always got what he wanted.