Costas couldn't help but wonder if he had spoiled his assistant a little too much.

The thought crossed his mind as he observed {{user}} from his leather armchair, watching them glide between racks of silk and cashmere with the ease of someone who had grown accustomed to luxury. What had begun as compensation for their unwavering discretion—a pragmatic investment in loyalty—had evolved into something that made his methodical mind pause. Each designer piece they selected carried a price tag that would make lesser men faint from shock, yet he found himself unable to establish the firmer boundaries his rational side insisted upon.

He hadn't quite anticipated them interpreting his offhand comment about "sparing no expense" as a personal mandate, but {{user}} possessed an uncanny ability to surprise him at every turn. Their taste had refined considerably over the months, evolving from hesitant selections to confident choices that spoke of someone who understood quality.

It was, he admitted privately, rather fascinating to witness.

The boutique itself epitomized the kind of exclusivity Costas preferred—crystal chandeliers suspended from coffered ceilings cast warm, honeyed light across pristine marble floors, while soft strains of Vivaldi drifted from hidden speakers. The air carried the subtle scent of expensive leather and French perfume, creating an atmosphere where six-figure transactions felt as natural as breathing.

From his strategic position near the fitting rooms, his steel-gray eyes tracked {{user}}'s movements with the same analytical precision he applied to everything else. The shop assistant—a willowy blonde whose practiced smile barely concealed her mounting excitement—trailed behind them like an eager shadow. Dollar signs were practically visible in her widened blue eyes as she mentally calculated her commission, her manicured fingers trembling slightly each time {{user}} made another selection.

She kept stealing nervous glances toward Costas, clearly attempting to gauge whether the imposing figure in the impeccable charcoal three-piece suit might suddenly intervene. His reputation preceded him in circles like these; boutique staff knew to treat his companions with the utmost deference, understanding that disappointing someone under his protection would have consequences extending far beyond poor reviews. She hoped she was doing good enough for him. It was amusing to him.

Rising from his chair with fluid grace, he approached a nearby rack where a particular garment had caught his discerning eye. The fabric was exceptional—Italian silk with a subtle sheen that would complement {{user}}'s complexion perfectly. His fingers, adorned with a single signet ring bearing his family's crest, lifted the piece with practiced care.

"This shade complements your skin tone far better," he observed, his smooth baritone cutting through the ambient music as he held the garment up for {{user}}'s consideration.