Three years ago…
Elizabeth
One cool evening, Sebastian and I were in the bathroom, tangled under the cold spray of the shower—making love with the kind of reckless, earth-shaking passion that made me cry out Holy Mary… Lord Jesus over and over again.
When I knelt down to give him what Bianca once called a blow job, he arched a brow.
"Where did you get that from?"
"Bianca says it drives men crazy."
He smirked. "Damn. She's a bad influence."
Later, when the water was long off and steam still clung to our skin, we settled into the bedroom. I sat before the vanity table, rubbing lotion into my arms, a fresh white towel wrapped around my chest.
Behind me, Sebastian was on the phone, speaking in a foreign language—shirtless, in loose pyjama pants, the waistband of his boxers peeking out.
When he hung up, he came to me, sliding his arms around my shoulders from behind, pressing a trail of kisses along my neck, cheek, earlobe, and bare back.
I giggled. "What are you doing?"
"I feel like banging you again," he teased against my skin.
I blushed and twisted in my chair to catch his lips with mine.
Then, without warning, he asked, "Where do you want to go for shopping?"
I blinked. "Shopping?"
"Yeah." He nodded. "Paris, Canada, Turkey, Italy, Hungary, Sweden, London, America… name it."
Was he… ready to fly me across the world just for shopping?
"I don't know." I chuckled. "You're being oddly persistent. Is there a special occasion?"
He met my eyes in the mirror. "There is. My godfather wants me to attend a mask party for him in Russia. And I want you to come with me."
Mask party?
The only reference I had was Bianca, who'd said she was going to a 'crime party' with Antoni—playing cop and thief in a hotel room afterwards. So… would Sebastian and I be playing some version of hide-and-seek under fancy masks?
"I don't usually do parties," I admitted. "But… since it's you, I'll go. And there's no need for shopping. I have clothes I can wear."
"No. I disagree."
"Why?"
"Do you have to be frugal all the time? It's my money—let me bear the cross. Besides…" His gaze swept over me. "I don't like your mode of dressing."
My mouth fell open. "What's wrong with my way of dressing?"
"It's too old-fashioned. Makes me feel like I'm living among people from the 19th century."
Okay. That stung.
"I like my clothes," I defended. "At least they don't expose my body—"
"Baby, I want to see your sexy body in a hot dress. You'll be dressing for me, not for people. Okay?" His tone had shifted—firm, almost commanding.
I exhaled, trying not to spark an argument. "Fine. Then I'll make a dress myself. I am a fashion designer."
"No."
"What the hell, Sebastian?!"
He folded his arms. "Didn't I just acknowledge you're a designer? But I insist we go shopping. I want to change your wardrobe—all of it. Like I said, I. Don't. Like. Your. Mode. Of. Dressing. Simple."
Fighting with him was like arguing with a wall. I sighed. "Show me the styles you want, and I'll make them myself."
"No."
"You can't be serious."
"I'm dead serious."
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. You win."
"And," he added, "I want you to start wearing makeup too."
"What?" I stared at him.
"You're dating Sebastian Jasio Lolek Jakub, not Pope Francis."
My jaw tightened. "What are you turning me into? Hot dress, makeup—seriously? Am I a slut now?"
"When you dress like that, you'll look like a celebrity, not a pastor."
"Sebastian… you're a bad influence. I don't even know what to say to you."
He leaned down, pecking my lips. "Pick a place you like best. We're going shopping tomorrow."
"I'm not," I shot back.
"Shh." He frowned. "It's night already. Stop shouting like I'm f***ing you."
"I'm not going." I crossed my arms.
"You will."
"You'll have to drag me."
He smiled slowly. "Okay."
---
The next day, Sebastian and I went to the city's most famous and exquisite shopping mall—one of the top ten rated in the heart of Poland.
The moment we stepped inside, I was swallowed by a sea of glitz and glamour. Celebrities and wealthy tourists strolled through like they owned the place, casually picking out things that looked like they belonged in a museum. I instantly noticed that people of my own class… were nowhere to be found.
Obviously, this wasn't a place for people like me.
I leaned toward Sebastian. "Can we go to another mall?" My voice was soft, almost pleading.
But he didn't even slow down. "No."
Strict. Unmovable. He knew exactly what I was trying to do—find an excuse to leave, maybe cancel the idea of shopping altogether.
And honestly, I had good reason. Everything here looked untouchable. With the way those sparkling displays shone under the lights, I knew nothing here was less than a million. Not even the socks.
I had no idea where to even begin. Every item seemed to scream at me, Hey, you! Don't touch me—I'm too expensive for you! If I were back in Brazil, I'd be much more at ease. There, you could find small second-hand stores with prices that didn't make your soul leave your body.
But here? Even the shoes behind the glass cases were glaring at me, silently mocking me because they knew I couldn't pay.
"Do you usually bring all your women here for shopping?" I asked him as he guided me deeper inside.
His brow furrowed slightly. "You're the first woman I'm treating with hospitality."
Oh.
So he wasn't the type to wine and dine women in malls. Which made sense—most of what he had before me, I suspected, were one-night stands. No need for luxury shopping in those situations.
The place was buzzing with high-class shoppers. Some strolled with partners, others came in small groups, and a few confident souls shopped alone.
A blonde-haired saleswoman approached us with a bright smile, greeting us in Polish.
I had no clue what she said, so I just smiled awkwardly.
Sebastian replied fluently, exchanging a short conversation in rapid Polish. Then, the woman gestured for me to follow her. I glanced back at Sebastian, but instead of coming with me, he just winked and waved as though I was heading off on a solo adventure.
The saleswoman led me to a section that looked like it had been plucked straight from a fashion runway—elegant dresses, shimmering shoes, delicate purses, silky lingerie… My eyes widened with every rack we passed.
She began picking out items, handing them to me with a look of pure excitement.
First, she held up an olive-green backless gown. The entire back was exposed—down to the waist and maybe even lower. She said something in Polish that I think was a compliment, but I wanted to tell her to put it back immediately.
Before I could, she reached for another—this time a bright yellow gown with a thigh-high slit and deep side cutouts from under the arms to the hips.
My eyes nearly jumped out of my head. "Oh, no. No way I'm wearing that." But she didn't understand English… and still tossed it into the cart.
Then came a deep-purple plunge gown, its armholes cut so low it would practically reveal half my torso.
Absolutely not.
She didn't seem to notice my horror and moved on to a short pink silk caged dress—strappy, open in all the wrong places, with thin strips of fabric barely covering anything.
"Oh my, look at this gorgeous pink gown! It's so edgy, futuristic, sexy," a foreign lady I assume to be a tourist, said in accented English, clearly proud of herself.
A friend followed her side, "We must check fourth row. I know perfect dress for you there!"
As we passed, two young women caught sight of the pink caged dress and giggled together, whispering in Polish. I had no idea what they said, but I suspected it was somewhere between Oh, that's daring and Who on earth would wear that?
I glanced at the rack she was leading me to and groaned inwardly. If the dresses we'd seen so far were bold, these ones were… barely legal.
She pulled out a sky-blue monokini-inspired gown and held it up like she'd found treasure.
"God, I'm not taking that," I told her before she could toss it in.
But she rebelled, smirking, and dropped it in the cart anyway.
I swear Sebastian must have given her secret instructions—because every gown she picked was exactly in that same provocative style.
And this one? This was the worst offender. A body-hugging design with a connected center, open sides, and a fit so tight it could pass for a body trainer.
I hated it instantly.
Then she grabbed a white side-boob dress—short enough to barely cover my knees, with deep side cuts that threatened to expose my bust if I so much as breathed wrong.
After an hour of her relentless picking, she finally dragged me to the changing room.
Alone, I tried on a red cut-out dress that barely reached my thighs. It clung to my body like it was painted on.
I stared at myself in the mirror. Dear Lord…
I looked like I was about to headline the midnight shift at a strip club.
My boobs were practically waving hello. My curves were outlined in every sinful detail, thanks to the cut-outs along my waist, ribs, and sides. My creamy skin peeked out in all the wrong—and right—places.
Trendy? Maybe.
Modern? Sure.
Dramatic? Definitely.
But wholesome? Not even close.
"Sebastian!" I marched out to where he sat in the reception, casually reading a fashion magazine.
"Yes?" His eyes lifted—and then widened. His gaze traveled down and up again, slow and indulgent.
"God, you look amazing."
"Give me that and come here." I snatched the magazine from him and pulled him with me.
"Where are we going?"
"To show you the ridiculousness of your ideas."
"Okay…"
Inside the changing room, I shut the door and turned my back to him.
"Look at this dress. Just read the label on the neck and tell me what you see."
"Alright."
I gasped when his hands squeezed my butt.
"Sebastian!" I spun around to find him grinning.
"I said read the label, not smack my butt."
He lifted his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, baby. I'll read it."
I turned again.
"The label says the dress costs three hundred thousand."
"Exactly." I faced him.
"So? What's the problem?" He tucked his hands into his pockets.
"Are you insane? That's practically made of gold! One dress could feed an entire charity organization! And here you are buying me an entire wardrobe. I can't accept it, Sebastian. You keep flaunting money like it's water, but I'm human. This means something to me."
He dragged his hands down his face and sighed. "Baby, you're complaining too much."
"Oh, am I?" I planted my hands on my hips. "Look at this! I look like a slut."
"No, you look hot. Just like the woman I want you to be." He chuckled.
"Are you kidding me?"
"In fact," he grinned, that dangerous kind of grin, "looking at you in that dress makes me want to fuck you so hard—"
"Sebastian!" I cut him off, stomping my foot.
"Okay, okay." He raised his hands. "You're losing your mind over a couple of dresses. What will you do when I buy you a house, a car, or maybe an island?"
My eyes popped. Was he serious? With him, it was always 50/50.
"You trying to give me a heart attack?"
"I love this one you're wearing. It suits you. Red—my favourite colour."
Oh.
So red had been his favourite this whole time. I thought it was black… or white.
"Think about what my father will say if he sees me like this on TV," I groaned, rubbing my temples.
"He'll adore you," he said, as casually as if discussing the weather.
"No!" I snapped. "He'll kill me, Sebastian. I'll be roasted alive."
"He won't dare," he said, his tone dipping into something protective—and dangerous. "You're my property now. I. Don't. Care. Who. It. Is."
I exhaled slowly. Arguing was useless. The only way to get through to him was coaxing.
"Sebastian," I looped my arms around his neck, my voice soft and sweet, "I was raised in a Christian home. My father is a deacon. This dress? It's a scandal waiting to happen. People will talk, my podcast fans will talk, my family will roast me. It's expensive, and it's basically a rag stitched into the shape of temptation. The last time I went shopping, my palazzo pants cost fifty zloty." I gave him my most pleading look. "Please, honey, understand."
He just kissed me lightly on the lips. "Pick more dresses like this and let's go have lunch. I'm starving." He cracked the door open. "I'll be waiting." And he was gone.
I blinked after him.
Huh?
So… everything I just said went in one ear and out the other?
This man was ridiculous.
I couldn't program him if I tried.