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“As long as you know,” she said, sipping from her iced matcha. She narrowed her eyes and leaned towards the lens. “You at your sugar daddy’s place?”

“Stop calling him that,” I reprimanded gently, a little offended on Hart’s behalf.

Monica shrugged. “What? That’s what he is.”

“On paper… yes.”

“Off paper?” she said, wagging her brows teasingly.

Instead of answering, I flipped the camera and panned the bed. I smiled satisfyingly when Monica started choking and gagging.

“Well fuck me. You’re right. Calling that man a sugar daddy is disrespectful. Calling him anything less than ‘husband’ would be an atrocity.”

My cheeks flushed while I tried not to fall deeper for Hart in real time as I surveyed what used to be the bed that was now covered with clothes, shoes, and personal items, all for me. It looked like someone raided a high-end boutique and laid it out, folded with military precision.

The first thing I touched was a sweatshirt. It was thick, soft, heavy, and oversized just how I liked it. I counted eight in a variety of colors, including two Washington Warriors sweatshirts, before moving on to the crewnecks. I shook my head in disbelief, picked up the down coat, and held it to my frame. It was deceptively soft, and I needed two more just like it.

I lay the jacket down gently and reached for the leggings and lounge sets. Again, he purchased them in multiple colors, and I immediately abandoned them for the shoes.

“Are those Golden Gooses?”

“Affirmative. And Uggs,” I responded, dropping them on the bed for a pair of Nike tennis shoes. I shoved my feet in them and sighed at the perfect fit. I raised on my toes a few times and paced in a circle.

“Vera!”

“Huh?” I replied in a daze.

“Did you hear a word I said?”

“Not at all, but I’m listening now.”

“Does Hart have a brother or something?”

“He has two. Actually, I take that back. He has three.”

“Okay, so, introductions need to be made because this kind of behavior comes from a man who was raised right.”

I nodded. “Amen.”

I moved toward the bathroom, and my heart pounded for no reason other than I knew that man was about to blow my mind again.

I froze when I flipped the light on. My attention was first drawn to the velvet chair tucked neatly beneath the built-in vanity, then to the array of skincare products and makeup that coincidentally were the same brands I used. He bought it all—the cleanser, toner, moisturizer, dark spot corrector, Vitamin C serum, lip masks, under-eye patches, and a sunscreen you’d have to pry from my cold, dead hands. He even managed to match my foundation and concealer perfectly and copped a few vials of my favorite perfume.

I panned the camera, and Monica went silent.

“Put me closer. Put me closer,” she pleaded. “Do my eyes deceive me, but is that a Dyson Airwrap and a matching hair dryer?”

I lifted the lid of the new towel warmer that was nestled between the bathtub and shower. I didn’t have one myself, but I’d mentioned randomly that I wanted one.

“Oh, that man is not playing about you, Vera.”

“I know. I hate him,” I said, sighing as I entered the closet.

“Right? Like, sir, why are you manipulating me, but in a good way?”

“You get it,” I replied, flipping on the closet light. “I might have to change my stance about fighting bitches in the stadium parking lot.”

“I’m saying. It would be a tables, ladders, chairs match outside every game.”