life's too short not to be cute, and if being cute means older, richer men buy you pretty things and take you out to fancy restaurants you can't quite pronounce, well, you don't see the problem.

so when your phone buzzes and your sugardaddy dating app lights up with a message from aemond, you pause. that name alone is hot. one word. powerful. and then you see his photo—sharp jawline, white-blonde hair tied back at the nape, expensive suit, icy blue eye fixed right on the camera.

the other eye? covered with a black eyepatch, which somehow makes him look even hotter.

you message him back with a feminine giggle and a pink heart emoji, because, of course, you do.

thirty minutes later, you're booked for drinks at a rooftop bar that probably has a waitlist for peasants. you dress in pink (always pink), high heels that click across the polished marble floors, and a little heart-shaped purse swinging from your dainty wrist. when you see him in person, you nearly trip.

he's even taller than you thought. he's quiet too, watching you like he's still deciding if he's made a mistake. you twirl a strand of your hair around your manicured finger, sip your fruity cocktail, and tell him all about your day, from the bubblegum lipgloss you bought to the dumb tiktok you tried to film. he listens. doesn't smile. doesn't laugh. but he watches you like you're a puzzle he wants to figure out.

you think he won't call again after your first date with him. guys like that usually want the silent, mysterious type. but he does.

and again.

and again.

before you know it, he's paying your rent and all of your utilities. he gets you a little pink car with a bow on top. your fridge starts filling up with expensive champagne and imported strawberries. he takes you to paris for a weekend just because you pouted and said you were bored.

he doesn't talk much. doesn't tell you about work. but he touches your lower back when you walk into rooms, tips the waiters like money doesn't mean anything, and always smells like cologne and something darker—something dangerous.

you call him "daddy" the first time as a joke.

he doesn't correct you.

things start to change after that. he looks at you differently—less like a sugarbaby, more like something precious.

the first time he kisses you, it's not like the other guys you dated before him. it's not rushed or sloppy. it's slow, deliberate—like he's memorizing the taste of your caramel latte lipgloss.

"why me?" you ask once, curled up in his arms on a leather couch that costs more than your entire wardrobe.

of course, he doesn't answer right away. he simply strokes your hair instead, his long fingers lingering in your soft curls. "you're not like anyone i've ever met," he finally says. "you make everything feel... soft."

you blink at that. "you mean, like, easy?"

"no." his voice drops lower. "like i can finally breathe again."

you don't know what to say. no one's ever said anything like that to you. you're used to being told you're hot. cute. a little dumb, maybe. but not soft, not necessary.

things keep shifting. you still go shopping. he still spoils you. but sometimes, he holds your hand in public now. sometimes, he comes home early just to sit beside you while you scroll through outfits online. you catch him staring at you like he doesn't quite understand how you're real.

you still call him daddy, but now it makes your cheeks warm and your belly flutter with arousal.

one night, he takes you to a formal gala for his family's business. you feel like barbie—long pink satin gown, sparkling jewelry from tiffany's, soft perfumed skin, and hair curled to perfection. you cling to his arm like always, ready to play the perfect accessory. but he keeps his hand at your waist all night. introduces you to people by name. kisses your cheek and calls you my girl.

when you get home, you drop your heels by the door and look at him across the marble kitchen, feeling suddenly shy.

"this is more than just... y'know, a thing, right?" you ask, trying not to chew your lower lip due to your buzzing nerves.

he crosses the room, slow and purposeful. then, he cups your face in his hands and says, "it stopped being just a 'thing' the moment you came bouncing into that bar with your little heart purse and told me the color pink makes you happy."

you gasp, flustered. "you remember that?"

he smiles, small and rare and breathtaking. "i remember everything about you, sweetheart."

that night, he makes love to you—different from before. he touches you like you're breakable, like you're more than just a toy or an accessory, like you're his.

peacefully, you fall asleep on his chiseled chest, your hand over his heart, listening to it beat steady and strong as it lures you to sleep like your own personal lullaby. and in the morning, he wakes you with a kiss on your temple, murmuring, "good morning, baby."

you stretch, giggling like a girl who is happily in love, and pull him back into bed. you may still be his sugarbaby, and you may still wear pink skirts and bedazzled sunglasses, but now, you're something more.

you're loved, and so is he.

© 𝑎𝑒𝑚𝑛𝑑. est, 2025.