Beep.

The card reader beeped, just like that.

The first thought that surfaced in Margot’s mind when she laid eyes on the couple stepping through the glass doors was, ’Oh, this is rare. A performative gold digger and her blue-collar boyfriend who is trying to impress her.’

She had seen variations of this dynamic before. The beautiful woman in expensive clothes, the working-class man stretching his credit card to its limit. Just the usual desperate transaction of status and affection playing out across the sales floor.

Usually, the man looked nervous, while the woman looked bored. Usually, the whole affair ended with a declined card or a whispered argument near the fitting rooms or a pair of shoes returned the next day with scuff marks on the soles.

But this couple was different from the moment they walked in, and Margot, who had been doing this for years and had developed an instinct for these things, felt her initial assessment begin to crack almost immediately.

The woman was the first anomaly. Yes, her gown was rumpled, but when Margot escorted her to the fitting room and helped her out of it, she saw the label. Armani. Not a diffusion line or a clever counterfeit. The real thing and in season.

Also the purse. Come on, always the purse. The small, elegant handbag that the woman had been clutching when she walked in, was Hermès.

Then there was the woman’s bearing. Margot watched her move through the store, and regal was the only word that fit. She did not rush or grab. Nor did she do any of the anxious, performative things that real gold diggers did when they were trying to prove they belonged in a place like this.

She simply... observed. Touched a fabric here, examined a seam there, like that. Her posture was straight without being stiff, her movements economical without being hurried.

The man was the second anomaly, and an even stranger one.

He looked, at first glance, exactly like what Margot had assumed. A blue-collar worker, probably a mechanic or a construction grunt, wearing dark overalls stained with grease and soot.

His hands were callused. A smear of something dark still marked his jaw. His golden hair was pulled back in a messy bun that was more functional than fashionable.

But the moment he started pointing out styles and materials, basically the moment he opened his mouth, Margot realized she had misjudged him entirely.

This man knew fashion. Perhaps grew up in it. Yes, like someone who had grown up around wealth. And his confidence, that was something else. He was not trying to impress anyone or performing wealth or status.

He was simply focused on her. Everything he did, every garment he selected, every suggestion he made, was for her. To see her smile. To see her emerge from the fitting room and twirl in front of the mirror. His golden eyes tracked her every movement, and they held nothing but adoration.

Everything was confirmed the moment the woman asked Margot for a pair of scissors.

"Just to cut the tag," she said calmly.

Margot handed her the scissors and she snipped the tag off the first outfit she had tried without hesitation, and handed it to Margot.

At the same moment, the man pulled a black card from his wallet. You know, the matte black, featureless except for a small, discreet logo that Margot recognized as belonging to a bank that did not issue cards to ordinary people, and swiped it through the reader without once glancing at the total.

Because he was looking at her. Not a single glance wasted.

Margot processed the payment in a daze. The receipt printed. The bag was packed.

They just pulled a mythical couple.

Now, standing to the side, Margot and the rest of the saleswomen, and even a few of the other well-off customers, were staring.

The woman was seated in a plush velvet chair, her new wide-leg trousers pooling elegantly around her ankles, her new cream sweater catching the light. And the man, the golden-haired, grease-stained, mythical man, was on his knees before her.

He had purchased seven pairs of shoes and the boxes were stacked around him as he carefully tried each pair on the woman’s feet.

He would slide a shoe onto her foot, sit back, and examine it from every angle. Then he would shake his head and move on to the next box.

"Thank you, Baby," Cecilia said, warm with teasing affection. She leaned forward, propping her chin on her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. "Have I made a dent in your earnings yet?"

Eastiel, still a bit dazed by everything, high from the word ’Baby’, which had sent him into a fresh spiral of devotion every single time she said it, looked up at her from his position at her feet.

His golden eyes were slightly glazed. His messy bun was coming undone, strands of blonde hair escaping to frame his face. His overalls were still stained and his ears still pink.

"I don’t know," he said, genuinely absentminded. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone and began tapping at the screen. "Do you want to look at my bank account?"

Margot and the saleswomen glanced at each other. Impressed smiles flickered across their faces.

A man on his knees, surrounded by seven pairs of designer shoes, offering to show his bank account to a woman who had just called him Baby in public, while half a dozen strangers watched in stunned silence.

Mythical, Margot thought again. Absolutely mythical.

Wait...

A lion...?

Wait a minute.

There was that one filthily rich lion family, was there not?

***

The drive home was quiet.

The truck hummed along the darkening streets, its engine purred beneath the soft hum of the air conditioning. Outside, the city was transitioning from afternoon to evening.

Streetlights flickering on in sequence, shop windows glowing warm against the winter chill and pedestrians hurrying home. Summer was coming. And it was coming quickly.

Cecilia’s head lolled against the passenger seat.

The exhaustion had hit her all at once. One moment she had been watching the city slide past her window, the next moment, her eyelids had grown heavy, and her head had begun to drift. Forward, to the side, forward again.

She had been slapped, scandalized, divorced, given an ultrasound, and taken on a shopping spree all in the same afternoon. Not to mention she had been fainting in the morning. Perhaps her body had finally decided that enough was enough.

Eastiel glanced over at her. His golden eyes, still slightly dazed from the events of the afternoon, softened.

He reached over and carefully pressed a button on the side of her seat. The mechanism whirred softly, and the seat began to recline, easing her from upright to a gentle, supported slope.

Behind them was the back seat, filled with boxes and bags of clothes and shoes. And also—

Underwear.

Eastiel had, in fact, brought Cecilia to a different store. A lingerie boutique, tucked discreetly between a jeweler and a chocolatier. Upon seeing its window display, full of lace and silk, he broke into a cold sweat.

He had followed her inside because she had asked him to, looking at him with those impossible eyes and said you promised, Baby and he had been powerless to refuse.

Inside, it had been worse.

The boutique was soft and smelled of roses. The saleswomen were even more elegant than the ones at Max Mara. And the garments had made Eastiel’s brain short-circuit so thoroughly that he had simply... stopped functioning.

Every time Cecilia picked up a piece, a lace bralette, a silk chemise, or a set of high-waisted briefs in a shade of blush pink that matched the inside of a seashell, she would glance back at him.

Imagine, Cecilia, with a small, questioning tilt of her head, with her eyes were basically saying, what do you think of this one? Do you like the color? The cut? Imafuckingine.

So Eastiel, who had faced down underwater welding accidents and rift outbreaks, had to stand behind her like a mute and deaf man, his arms crossed, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above her left shoulder.

He couldn’t do it. Offering opinions on underwear was beyond his current level right now and he must discuss it with the court first.

Well... at least not in public... right? The saleswomen were watching and the other customers were pretending not to notice. Also, the treacherous memory of her saying Baby still echoing in his ears.

But apparently, Cecilia just needed to simply look at his face and the rigid line of his jaw. Now that he looked back, even the pink flush creeping up his lion ears and the way his eyes, despite his best efforts, flicked toward certain items and skittered away from others gave her clues about—about—

—his preferences!

Yes! This woman could somehow know exactly which ones he secretly preferred!

Like how?!

The color? The material? The cut? Everything that made his breath catch in his throat whenever she held one up!

Was his face actually giving out something?! Was he that transparent?! Had the word Baby broken some essential part of his composure that he would never, ever get back?!

In the truck now, driving through the darkening city, Eastiel reddened again at the memory. The boxes in the back seat seemed to radiate heat.

She knew. She absolutely knew. And she had chosen those ones, the ones he had tried so hard not to look at, on purpose.

Focus, he told himself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. Focus on the road. Focus on the—

The next stop should be a romantic dinner, right? Romantic dinner was the standard progression. Shopping, then dinner. Dinner, then maybe a walk along the river. A walk along the river, then—

No, wait, she was going to stay at his estate, she had said she was going to stay at his estate, which meant she would be at his apartment, which meant—

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

Eastiel looked down at himself and at the grease-stained overalls. His work boots were scuffed and worn from countless work hour. At the smear of soot was still darkening his jaw.

Fucking fu—