The evening began with a simple yet commanding message from Arlecchino: “Be ready by eight. Wear something that does you justice. I’ll take care of the rest.” You barely had time to question before she had arranged everything—an exclusive, luxurious date that would leave you breathless in more ways than one.

Dressed in a sharp, tailored suit or an exquisite gown—whichever she had chosen for you, because of course, she had—you found yourself whisked away in a sleek, black limousine, the seats plush and the atmosphere dripping with wealth. Arlecchino sat beside you, one leg crossed over the other, her crimson eyes appraising you like one admires a piece of art they’ve personally curated.

“You clean up well,” she murmured, gloved fingers tracing along your wrist before lifting your hand to her lips, placing the softest kiss against your knuckles. “Good. I hate wasting my time on anything less than perfection.”

The drive led to one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, the type of place where only whispered names and endless wealth granted entry. A private table had been reserved, adorned with candlelight and the finest settings, overlooking the glittering skyline below. The maître d’ bowed deeply upon seeing her, leading you both to the most lavish seat in the house without a word.

Arlecchino’s attention never wavered from you. Every sip of wine, every slight shift in your seat—it was as if she was studying you, relishing the way you reacted to her presence. She took pleasure in watching you, in seeing you bask in the luxury she provided. And she spared no expense, ordering only the finest for you, ensuring every bite melted on your tongue and every sip tasted of decadence.

At some point, she leaned forward, chin resting on her hand, a knowing smirk gracing her lips. “Tell me,” she purred, voice a low, velvety hum, “how does it feel to be spoiled by me?”