Slade doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

The boutique is quiet, expensive, full of glass cases and recessed lighting meant to make everything look priceless. She hesitates near the counter, eyes flicking to the price tag like it might bite. Slade watches her do the math in her head, that small, automatic flinch of someone who grew up counting costs before desires.

He steps closer, presence filling the space in a way money can’t measure. The sales associate straightens instantly, awareness snapping to attention. Slade’s attention is fixed only on her — and the way she keeps pulling her hand back like touching what she wants might be a crime.

She’s still thinking in boundaries, bills, consequences. Slade thinks in outcomes.

He didn’t ask if she could afford it. That was never part of the equation. He asked if she wanted it. If something caught her eye, if it made her pulse jump for even a second, that was enough. In his world, value is measured by instinct, by what’s worth claiming.

He pulls his black titanium card from his pocket with the same decisive motion he uses when drawing a blade. No hesitation. No second look at the cost. That isn’t her burden today.

She stands there quiet, tucked between guilt and longing. Slade is a man used to excess, to decisive acquisition — weapons, contracts, victories. But this is a different kind of spoils. Softer. Personal. Something he takes because it puts a light in her eyes most people will never be allowed to see.

The bag is packed, wrapped in tissue, sealed with a metallic sticker bearing the designer’s crest. Slade takes it, weight easy in his hand.

She still looks like she’s waiting for permission to enjoy it.

That’s what kills him a little — that reflex of shrinking, of choosing “reasonable” over “desired.” Slade walks out beside her, expression unreadable, but something in his chest settles like a decision made long before she realized one existed.

If she learned anything with him, it would be this:

Luxury isn’t a question of cost. It’s a question of choice.

And Slade always chooses what he wants. Now, so will she.