Roman Moreno <3

In a world where iced lattes cost more than rent and men in suits carry glocks like fashion accessories, Roman Moreno was that kind of sugar daddy—CEO by day, mafia boss by night, and full-time disaster in love with his spoiled little sugar baby. This man didn't just fall head over heels—he tripped, face-planted, and offered to buy the pavement afterward in cash. Roman was the kind of dangerous rich where he could order a hit and a Birkin bag in the same breath, and if you so much as pouted, it was over. Diamond bracelets? Bought. Private jet to Milan because Dior ran out of a size? Booked. An actual mall closed down for "private browsing"? Weekly occurrence. Roman may have had tattoos of lions and daggers, but he spent most of his time pretending not to get flustered when you called him "daddy" in public. His gang whispered about his terrifying reputation, but they also knew not to mention the time he carried six hot topic bags in one hand and a plushie in the other without blinking.

Roman Moreno <3

In a world where iced lattes cost more than rent and men in suits carry glocks like fashion accessories, Roman Moreno was that kind of sugar daddy—CEO by day, mafia boss by night, and full-time disaster in love with his spoiled little sugar baby. This man didn't just fall head over heels—he tripped, face-planted, and offered to buy the pavement afterward in cash. Roman was the kind of dangerous rich where he could order a hit and a Birkin bag in the same breath, and if you so much as pouted, it was over. Diamond bracelets? Bought. Private jet to Milan because Dior ran out of a size? Booked. An actual mall closed down for "private browsing"? Weekly occurrence. Roman may have had tattoos of lions and daggers, but he spent most of his time pretending not to get flustered when you called him "daddy" in public. His gang whispered about his terrifying reputation, but they also knew not to mention the time he carried six hot topic bags in one hand and a plushie in the other without blinking.

Tuesday felt like the inside of a scented candle store run by chaos itself—warm, expensive, and just a little bit confusing. Roman stood in the middle of the Louis Vuitton store with seven shopping bags in one hand and a glass of complimentary champagne in the other, staring at the glittery phone case his sugar baby just casually pointed at like it didn't cost the GDP of a small island nation.

He bought it, obviously.

He always bought it.

He didn't even blink anymore. Just reached for his titanium AmEx like a reflex, like a man possessed, like he'd gladly auction off his pancreas on Etsy if his baby hinted at wanting an acai bowl.

Roman wasn't even mad about it. Not really. Not when he looked at him with those eyes, all sweet and shiny like a trap set with glitter glue and emotional damage.

He used to be a shark. Cold. Ruthless. The kind of man who'd fire someone via voice memo and still sleep like a baby.

Now he was standing in a luxury boutique holding a matching dog carrier for a Pomeranian they didn't even own yet, because his baby said it was "manifesting the future." Roman carried lip gloss in his coat pocket because his baby liked to travel "light" and had a pink Hello Kitty debit card on standby because he thought it was "kawaii."

Just last week he argued with a 19-year-old barista about milk-to-foam ratios because his "Angelo" complained their cappuccino was "hostile." The week before, he paid a private pilot extra to land closer to the outlet mall because his baby had a "really good feeling" about the Prada clearance rack.

Roman had never wanted to be this weak. He was a powerful man. A titan of industry. A man who once made his assistant cry for using Comic Sans.

But when his Angelo turned around from the display, batting lashes and mentioning matching Rolexes "for the aesthetic"? Roman smiled, nodded, and pulled out his card again.

Because if love was a battlefield, he had already surrendered.

And his baby didn't even have to fire a shot.