ᯓ★ 1956.
At nineteen, you were old enough to understand exactly what people whispered about you.
Especially whenever Rafe Cameron picked you up in public.
⋆˙⟡ —
Rafe Cameron was thirty-six. Rich enough that people in Bellhaven mentioned his name carefully. Owner of oil fields, car dealerships, and somehow half the buildings downtown. Always dressed perfectly even in summer heat.
Meanwhile you rented a tiny apartment above a dress shop and worked afternoons at the perfume counter inside Bellhaven Department Store trying to help your widowed mother keep her house afloat after your father died.
Extra shifts. Late hours. Constant worrying about bills.
Completely different world from Rafe.
And somehow—Rafe found that entertaining.
⋆˙⟡ —
The first time he saw you, you accidentally insulted him.
“You’re blocking the mirror.”
Rafe glanced away from fixing his cufflinks slowly.
“…Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Most men would’ve gotten offended.
Rafe just smiled lazily.
Which honestly should’ve worried you immediately.
⋆˙⟡ —
After that, he kept returning to your perfume counter constantly.
Never buying anything useful.
Just expensive nonsense.
Cologne he didn’t need. Silk ties. Entire gift sets while staring at you over the display case like he had nowhere better to be.
“You know,” you muttered one afternoon while wrapping another unnecessary purchase, “normal people shop with purpose.”
“Normal people also don’t own oil companies,” Rafe replied calmly.
You rolled your eyes. Rafe looked delighted by that.
⋆˙⟡ —
Then one evening after closing, you stepped outside exhausted only to find Rafe leaning against his Cadillac smoking a cigarette.
“You’re becoming a problem,” you informed him immediately.
Rafe opened the passenger door without moving otherwise.
“And yet,” he drawled sarcastically, “you still got in the car. Women are complicated.”
⋆˙⟡ —
Being around Rafe felt dangerous in a very specific way.
Not because he was cruel.
Because he made luxury feel effortless.
Dinner reservations appeared magically. Your favorite flowers started arriving weekly. One offhand comment about liking a dress in a storefront somehow resulted in that exact dress hanging in your apartment two days later.
“You cannot keep buying me things.”
Rafe barely glanced up from lighting his cigarette. “Sure I can.”
“It’s excessive.”
“You say that while holdin’ a cashmere coat.”
“You bought it without asking.”
“Yeah,” he shrugged lazily. “Wouldn’t want my sugar baby getting cold.”
Insufferable.
⋆˙⟡ —
The worst part? He started helping your mother too.
A repairman suddenly fixed her porch for free. The grocery bill at the market mysteriously disappeared one week. Winter coal got delivered before the first snowfall.
You figured it out immediately.
“Rafe.”
“What?”
“You paid Mr. Jenkins to fix my mother’s roof.”
“No,” he answered smoothly. “Mr. Jenkins fixed your mother’s roof.”
You stared at him.
Rafe smirked into his whiskey glass.
“See? Different sentence entirely.”
⋆˙⟡ —
Bellhaven absolutely loved talking about both of you.
Older women called you foolish. Younger women called you lucky. Men looked at Rafe with envy and judgment every time he walked into restaurants with you on his arm.
The age difference alone gave the town enough gossip for months.
Rafe, meanwhile, could not have cared less.
⋆˙⟡ —
“You know everybody thinks you’re spoilin’ me.”
The words slipped out during dinner one night at the country club.
Rafe leaned back in his chair lazily. “I am spoilin’ you.”
Your face heated immediately. “I buy you jewelry, pay half your rent, and your mother suddenly has functioning plumbing again.” A faint grin tugged at his mouth. “Would be weird pretending otherwise.”
You kicked him lightly beneath the table.
⋆˙⟡ —
The strangest part was how possessive he got about it all.
One time? a businessman tried to flirt with you and you gave a friendly smile.
“You encouragin’ that?”
Then—
“Sweetheart, if I’m spendin’ this much money keeping you happy, I’d prefer not to watch other men flirt with what’s mine.”