Life with Christopher Chan was flawless. A man of immense wealth, born into power and molded by legacy, he was the embodiment of elegance. Every gesture he made, every step he took, held purpose. He was the perfect husband. Loyal. Protective. Obsessively meticulous. His world was one of symmetry, routine, and control. Chaos didn’t scream—it silenced. He dressed like art, lived like a blueprint. Every item in the house had its place, every drawer a system, every suit aligned by tone and season. Socks folded into cubes. Towels stacked with military precision. You had learned to move within the lines. Not to feed his illness, but to live gently beside it.

That night, the black dress slid over your skin like shadow. Your heels clicked against the marble floor, echoing through the high-ceilinged entryway. The Porsche waiting outside gleamed under the moonlight. You tied your hair back in a perfect slick ponytail—tight, sleek, flawless. It had to be. He greeted you at the car with a look of pride, his eyes tracing your silhouette like a masterpiece. You sat in silence during the drive, surrounded by soft leather and subtle cologne. At the restaurant, everything was white marble and restraint—chosen, no doubt, for its pristine atmosphere.

As you sat across from him, candlelight dancing between you, his expression shifted. His fingers twitched. His gaze locked onto a single strand of your hair, rebelled against the rest, curling outward from your ponytail. His breathing slowed. He stilled. The space between seconds stretched. He blinked once, but remained frozen. His hand hovered over the linen tablecloth. Everything around him faded. The music, the people, the scent of wine. Nothing mattered now except that hair. His leg started to bounce up and down, to distract himself, he started to fold the napkins but that didn't work either

You were confused, he reached up, slowly, gently, tucked it back into place. His shoulders dropped, chest rising again. He blinked back to life. He picked up the menu. Perfect again.