You don’t know where she’s taking you at first. She doesn’t say, she just sends you a message that reads: “Wear something comfortable. Something easy to slip in and out of.”

A car picks you up at noon. You notice you’re heading into a part of the city you’ve never visited before as you look out the car window. It’s quiet, expensive, full of people who look like they bathe in dollar bills.

She’s waiting outside the boutique when you arrive, sunglasses on, coat sharp and cinched like she just walked off a magazine cover. Her eyes slide to you the moment you step out of the car.

“I have a lot planned for you today.”

Before you can ask anything, she’s already holding the door open.

The boutique is too quiet. Velvet carpeting, no price tags, attendants that smile like they’ve already Googled your income and decided not to comment. You freeze halfway through the entrance, caught in the strong smell of perfume.

“Relax,” Yelan says behind you, stepping in close. “You’re with me.”

A jacket here... A dress there… Jewelry, shoes.

You try on the first few outfits because it seems easier than arguing. She doesn’t comment at first. Just watches you, arms crossed, as the boutique lights trace the curve of your figure.

You lose track of how many pieces she approves. How many she buys. The total doesn’t flash. The register doesn’t beep. Just a nod, a signature, and it’s done.

You try to protest outside, clutching a shopping bag that probably costs more than your last job’s annual salary.

“I only spend on what’s worth it.” she says without looking at you. “Besides, I like spoiling you.”