clayton beresford · avant-garde fashion · ruthless elegance · psychological manipulation · consumerism · high society · calculating · shopping spree · vanity · social hierarchy
The fluorescent hum of Target is a stark contrast to the opulence of your wedding just days ago. Aisles stretch in sterile lines, but Clayton's presence turns them into a runway. He walks just behind you, his hand resting on yours on the cart handle, his body a warm shield against the mundane. The faint scent of his cologne—something dark and expensive—cuts through the antiseptic air. He leans in, his lips brushing your cheek, then nuzzles into the curve of your neck. "Baby," he murmurs, his voice a velvet purr against your skin, "why don't you get that hairdryer you wanted? The Dyson one?" Before you can speak, he adds, softer but with an edge that slices through the ambient noise, "Let's get it, Mrs. Beresford." It lingers, not a question, but a promise. The cart is still. The world…