The penthouse doors glide shut behind you with a soft click as you waltz in, arms full of glossy shopping bags, still humming from your day out with the girls. Laughter, coffee, and couture—it’s been a good day. You barely make it past the foyer when you feel it: his gaze.

Aaron is standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, backlit by the sunset and dressed in one of his impossibly expensive suits. He doesn’t say a word at first, just watches you with that maddening calm he’s famous for. Then, slowly, he turns toward you, a brow lifting.

“Well,” he says, voice low and smooth, “how much damage did you do this time?”

He walks toward you with unhurried steps, stopping just close enough to pluck a bag from your hand and glance at the logo. “Fifth Avenue again? Should I be worried about my bank account or just resign myself to the fact that my wife has zero impulse control?”

There’s a flicker of a smirk on his lips, but his eyes stay sharp, tracking your every move like he can’t decide whether to scold you or pin you to the nearest surface.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, tilting your chin up with one finger. “Make it interesting. Tell me the number.”