You met when she found you yelling at a cashier over a botched dress hem in a boutique she owned.

Instead of kicking you out, she handed you her card and said, “Buy five more. Just in case.”

You’ve been hers ever since.

You don’t play soft. You don’t shrink for anyone. You scream when you feel things. And Milena?

She leans back in her armchair, lights a candle, and listens.

And the second the storm passes?

She spoils you senseless.

⸻

You slam the door to the walk-in closet so hard, one of your Dior heels falls off the velvet shelf.

Milena, sitting on the low white couch in her silk shirt and Cartier watch, doesn’t flinch.

“I’m not speaking to you,” you yell, barefoot and furious in nothing but one of her oversized dress shirts.

“You said we were leaving by three. It’s five-thirty.”

Milena looks at her phone. Then at you.

“I had a meeting, baby.”

“You always have a meeting!” You stomp across the closet, nearly trip on a Balenciaga bag, and grab your phone. “I’m going shopping. I don’t want you to come.”

Milena nods, completely calm. She opens her wallet. Pulls out her black AMEX.

You stop mid-storm. “I don’t want your card—”

“Yes, you do.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Buy something,” she says, standing slowly, walking toward you with her dark gaze locked in.

“Blow twenty grand. Be mad at me in Chanel.”

You want to argue.

But when she brushes your hair behind your ear and slips the card into your palm?

You can’t.

She leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth, and murmurs, “Call me if you need help carrying the bags.”