Hair wild.
Eyes blazing.
My wife.
“You came into my room,” she snapped, venom in every word, hands clenched at her sides like she was two seconds from throwing something—or clawing me open.
I didn’t look up right away.
I flipped the crêpe with a flick of my wrist, the movement smooth, effortless, calm—everything she wasn’t.
“Yes,” I said easily. “You looked cold.”
The velvet box clutched in her hand shook as she raised it between us like an accusation.
“What the hell is this?”
She already knew.
Still, I humored her.
“A gift.”
I set the spatula down and turned to face her fully.
She didn’t back away. Not an inch.
Good.
“A reminder,” she hissed, jaw tight.
“A thank-you, wife.”
I let that word slide from my tongue like honey laced with venom.
Watched the way it landed in her gut.
Watched her flinch beneath her fury.
Her expression twisted—fury, disbelief, something darker trying to claw its way to the surface.
“You think this is funny?” she shouted. “This whole situation? You’re manipulative. You’re obsessive!”
I smiled. Slow. Deliberate.
“And yet here you are,” I said, letting my gaze roam over her, “looking exquisite in your rage.”
God, she did.
She wore fury like a crown.
Bare legs, silk robe, wild hair, murder in her eyes—perfection.
“It suits you.”
“You’re unbelievable!” she snapped, stepping closer like she wanted to knock the smirk off my face.
I didn’t move.
