NOVARIA’S POV
A week after the whole Melissa incident, Sylvester suddenly decided that I needed to go shopping.
Not wanted.
Needed.
According to him, my wardrobe was “outdated,” “too plain,” and apparently “unacceptable” for someone living in the Muskegon mansion.
I personally thought my clothes were perfectly fine.
“You already bought me enough clothes,” I argued while sitting cross-legged on the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest. “I still wear the ones you got me months ago,"
Sylvester leaned against the dining table with his arms folded across his chest, dressed in an expensive black shirt that fit his broad shoulders perfectly.
“That’s exactly the problem,” he replied calmly. “Months ago,"
I frowned.
“My clothes are still good,"
“They’re old,"
“But they’re comfortable,"
