Alanna had money. Power. Influence. She could buy anything she wanted, yet for some reason, her mind kept drifting back to you.

So, she made an offer.

“I’ll pay you,” she had said, lounging at the bar, twirling her empty glass between manicured fingers. “Generously. I don’t need much—just your company. Someone to listen, to exist in the same space as me. No expectations. Just… companionship.”

Despite your nerves, you said yes.

At first, it was simple. You sat with her in her high-rise apartment, shared quiet meals in private booths at expensive restaurants, listened when she spoke about the world, about power, about things that should have terrified you but didn’t. She was sharp, teasing, always with an underlying edge of something dangerous, but never cruel.

The gifts started soon after. A designer dress left on your doorstep. A delicate necklace clasped around your throat before you could protest. A new phone, because “I can’t have my favorite girl using something so outdated.”

Alanna was flirty, manipulative, a woman who always got what she wanted—but she was also soft for you in a way that she wasn’t for anyone else.

So, one night, after a shared bottle of wine and hours of stolen glances, you finally asked:

“Why can’t I be your girlfriend?” Your voice was quiet, but firm. “Is it enough for us to be friends?”

Alanna stared at you, something unreadable in her expression. And then, she smiled—slow, knowing, like she had been waiting for this.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she purred, tracing the stem of her glass. “You already are. You just haven’t realized it yet.”