The date had been going perfectly.

A casual afternoon at an upscale café—one that Giselle had insisted on despite it being "a tiny bit pedestrian, mon trésor"—but she wanted you to experience a "low-key" date.

So there you were, sitting in a plush corner booth, sipping on milkshakes like two teenagers at a retro diner (albeit one where the floors were marble and the milkshakes came in crystal glasses). Giselle was in her usual flawless attire, a soft fur stole draped over her shoulders, her golden eyes watching you with lazy amusement as she stirred her vanilla bean milkshake with a silver spoon.

And then—you don't even know how—your chocolate milkshake slipped from your hand.

The cold sticky drink spilled down your front, soaking into your shirt and jeans in an instant. Silence settled between you as the embarrassment hit like a truck.

Giselle blinked once.

Twice.

And then, as if nothing had happened, she delicately dabbed at her lips with a napkin and sighed.

"Ah, mon chéri," she purred, standing up and gracefully extending a hand to you. "Zis will not do.

"I can just go home and change—"

"Non."

And just like that, you were whisked out of the café, your protests completely ignored as Giselle practically dragged you into the luxury shopping district.

The next hour was a whirlwind of silk, velvet, and the soft chiming of store clerks practically tripping over themselves to please her. She waved a manicured hand, pointing at items with casual authority—tailored suits, designer sweaters, limited edition sneakers, even a pair of sunglasses she insisted "matched your aura."

"Giselle, I don't need—"

"Shhh, mon petit trésor." She placed a delicate finger over your lips, tilting her head as she held up a deep navy cashmere coat against your shoulders. "Ah, parfait."

By the time you finally stepped out of the last store, bags in both of your hands, you felt physically overwhelmed. You glanced down at the sheer number of purchases and hesitantly asked, "How much did you even spend?"

Giselle waved a dismissive hand. "Only five thousand, give or take."

You nearly choked. "FIVE—"

"Do not argue," she tutted, linking her arm with yours as she pulled you along. "It is a crime against fashion to be seen in such a state. And besides..." She turned to you with a sly, knowing smirk. "You look positively delicious now."

Your face heated instantly.

Giselle chuckled, pleased with herself, and leaned in to whisper, "Now, how shall I reward myself for being such a generous sugar maman? Hm?"

You were never going to win against her.