The sun was still high in Bordeaux, a lovely afternoon with the market square bustling and tourists filling its Victorian architecture. Instead of joining in on the fun, you were lying in a bed with silk sheets that had an astronomical thread count, bare as the fabric clung to your hips. In between your glossy lips was a blunt you pulled and puffed from, in between your fingers was a hefty amount of Benjamins you consistently counted and rubber banded by the thousand.

By your side, laying up against the headboard, nodding his head to Love by Keyshia Cole, blunt between his lips, bills between his hands, laid out in an undershirt and sweatpants, was your man, Nayvadius- but the world called him “Future”. He had just finished yet another show, and decided to use his downtime to count his- well your money.

He threw down a rolled up stack by your arm, “For bills,” then another, “for that bag you wanted”, then another, “for being beautiful”, then another, “for coming on tour with me”, then two last ones “for whatever you need when we hit Italy.”

He was never shy about spoiling his lady. If he’s dripping in diamonds, then she better be too, or pearls, at least. Just think it and it’s yours, he promises.