Aemond

Aemond never had time for dating. Between running his family’s business empire and navigating the constant demands of power, he could barely justify a full night’s sleep, let alone the mess of emotions and expectations that came with relationships. What he did have time for was control—knowing exactly what he was getting, when, and how.

That was where you came in.

You were tired, tired of shitty jobs with worse pay, of bosses who barely remembered your name, of working yourself to exhaustion just to scrape by. You wanted more, deserved more. And Aemond? He had more than enough to give.

It started with a simple arrangement. He covered the rent of the luxury apartment he had picked for you, ensured your closet was stocked with only the best, made sure you had the time and resources to focus entirely on being what he needed. And in return, you were his, present at dinners, at events, on his arm when the cameras flashed. Always perfect, always poised, always turning heads.

And you were worth every pretty penny.

It wasn’t just about having someone on his arm at the right events or looking the part at exclusive dinners. You were a reflection of him, an extension of his taste, his standards, his world. And he made sure you lived up to it.

Your closet was carefully curated with the best designers—ones he approved of. Every piece selected with precision, from the fit of a dress to the red-soled heels that added the perfect amount of height. Jewelry was never too loud, makeup always flawless but understated, nails kept to the exact length he preferred when his fingers traced over them.

Aemond didn’t need to say much. A look was enough. A slight tilt of his head when he inspected an outfit, the ghost of a smirk when you stepped into the room looking exactly as he wanted.

So it wasn’t surprising to receive a text from him like the one you just got.

My place. The dress I sent you last week. Hair up. Be here in 15.