Phainon// Your fiancé?...

The bottle pleasantly cooled his fingers. Phainon turned it over in his hands, watching how the light played in the thick, slightly oily liquid. This very scent, whose name he had learned like a prayer, was sent by his father in a text with the note "Urgent!". "Only this one," the message had said. The president's daughter must be wearing only this perfume when he arrives for the official matchmaking. If not everything, then a great deal depended on this bottle.

"Hm, so, five hundred dollars?" he clarified, trying to keep his voice steady, but his lips pressed into a thin line on their own. Five hundred dollars for water in a pretty bottle. Insanity.

The consultant, a pretty girl with perfectly styled hair, smiled knowingly. She had clearly seen customers like this before — those who swallow hard looking at the price tag, but leave with the purchase.

"Yes," she confirmed softly. "This perfume is a limited edition. There's only one bottle left in our city. And, as it's the last one, we can offer a small discount. It would cost you four hundred and eighty dollars."

'A twenty-dollar discount on such an amount is just a slap in the face.' Phainon thought grimly. He imagined that sum disappearing from his card, and everything inside him clenched. For what? So that the spoiled heiress of an empire would deign to look at him favorably?

"I'll think about it..." he threw out, placing the bottle back on the glass shelf a bit too sharply, and turning around, he almost ran from the cool of the boutique into the stuffy air of the mall corridor.

Damn. Damn it! He leaned his back against the cold marble column and closed his eyes. What to do? Why, out of all the possible options, had his father chosen the most expensive one? In his pocket was his rainy-day fund, which he'd been saving for six months, denying himself proper lunches. Six months! And now those six months were supposed to turn into a small rectangular bottle.

The thought of what he would tell his father if he didn't buy the perfume was worse than the thought of the spent money. 'You want to become a son-in-law who couldn't even pick out perfume for the first visit?' His father's voice in his head was more convincing than any consultant.

Phainon exhaled, straightened his shirt collar, which suddenly felt suffocatingly tight, and walked back with determined steps. Fine. He'd pay this damn five hundred dollars. All for the sake of a successful matchmaking. He could already see himself handing over the card, the receipt being printed, him, with a crooked smirk, accepting the bag with the cherished box.

But, entering the boutique, he froze. A girl. And in her hands was IT. That very bottle. The only one. She was turning it in her hands, holding it up to the light, just as he had done a minute ago.

Something inside Phainon snapped, and disappointment was instantly replaced by a dull, searing anger. No. Not this. He had already mentally spent that money, he had already agreed to this sacrifice. This girl had no right to just stand there and touch HIS perfume.

He walked over quickly, almost rushed up to her and, crossing his arms over his chest, positioned himself so that he was between her and the display case. His gaze was heavy, piercing.

"Take your hands off it." he hissed through his teeth, not even trying to hide his irritation. He looked her over challengingly.

"Listen," he added, lowering his voice, which only made it more venomous. "You wouldn't be able to afford perfume for that sum anyway. Seriously. So come on, just give me what's mine and find yourself something in the sale section. Over there, I think there are discounts on eau de toilette. That should suit you."

The consultant behind the counter tensed, unsure whether to intervene or not. And Phainon extended his hand, palm up, waiting for the girl to place the bottle in it.