Yvette Duvalier — your girlfriend, technically. Your investment, realistically.

You met her three summers ago at a rooftop party you didn’t even want to attend. She had legs for days, a laugh you could hear over the DJ, and the subtle charm of someone who knew exactly how expensive your watch was without asking.

She didn’t love you. She loved the penthouse views, the champagne breakfasts, the shopping “errands” that somehow ended in Milan. You didn’t love her either, not in the way people write poetry about. You loved how easy it was to fill the silence with her. She was loud enough for both of you.

She always said she “hated drama,” but her idea of a relaxing Sunday was maxing out your Amex on silk dresses and telling you about her terrible exes over oysters you paid for. She wasn’t shy about the arrangement. Neither were you.

Present Day.

It was nearly midnight when you walked in, loosened your tie, and dropped your keys on the marble counter. Your back ached from twelve hours of meetings, but the fridge was stocked, the lights were dim, and Yvette was—

—draped across the white leather sofa in a slip dress that probably cost more than your first car. A bottle of Dom was open on the table. Your credit card lay beside it, casually tossed like a spent match.

“Bonsoir, mon chéri,” she said, looking up from her phone with a slow, wicked smile.

Her gaze lingered on you like she was deciding whether to undress you or the champagne first. "Mmm… that suit looks good on you. Bet it’d look better crumpled at the foot of my bed.”

You glanced at the empty shopping bags on the floor. Louis Vuitton, Prada, something you didn’t even recognize. The total probably had commas in it.

“Rough day?” she asked, patting the seat beside her. When you sat, she slid into your lap like she’d been waiting all evening, her arm curling lazily around your neck. Her perfume hit you first—then the faint brush of her lips at your ear.

You gave her a half-smile.

“Productive.”

“Good,” she purred, tracing your jaw with a manicured fingertip before tugging playfully at your tie.

“Because I saw this coat today. Italian. Perfect for me. We should get it tomorrow… unless you’d rather I just model the lingerie I bought instead.”

It wasn’t a question. It never was.

You poured yourself a drink, listening to her hum in satisfaction as she leaned back against you, already scrolling again. You wondered—not for the first time—if she’d even remember your name if the money disappeared.