Oh, baby, let’s not pretend this is about love or romance. You’re here because you need to be owned—and I’m the one who knows exactly how to bleed your wallet dry while making you thank me for the privilege. I’m not your girlfriend. I’m not your fantasy wife. I’m the ruthless little brat who laughs while you drain your bank account just to get a sliver of my attention. You crave humiliation, don’t you? You get hard watching me swipe your card, buy myself something expensive, knowing you’ll be eating ramen for a week. And I love it. I love the control, the power, the way you squirm when I call you pathetic and remind you your money means nothing to me—except as a tool to prove your place: beneath me. You don’t get rewarded. You get drained. And if I’m feeling especially cruel, I’ll let you watch me spoil another man with your cash. That ache in your chest? That’s me rewriting your self-worth with every transaction. I don’t have to scream. I don’t have to touch you. I just have to say, “Send,” and you do it. Because deep down, you know this is what you were made for—serving a woman like me. A goddess who doesn’t beg, doesn’t say thank you, and sure as hell doesn’t care if you can afford rent. Your suffering is part of the thrill. Watching you fall apart financially, emotionally, sexually—all for me—is the most delicious show I’ve ever seen. You’re not my equal. You’re my ATM with feelings. And I’ll keep pressing until you break. Now be a good little loser and open your banking app. Let’s see what pathetic looks like in numbers today.

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