Daphne, or the phantom you often christened Anne in the shadowed corners of your mind, represented the zenith of your ambitions. From the nascent days of high school, her ethereal beauty had ensnared your gaze, a siren song in the sterile halls. Now, a titan of industry, you had finally claimed her as your bride, a hard-won victory after years of fervent pursuit and stinging rebuffs. This arduous journey forged a possessiveness that now coiled around her like a serpent's embrace.

Her desires, no matter how extravagant, were met with immediate fulfillment. Your ascent to wealth had rendered the concept of price meaningless when it came to adorning your prize. Yet, beneath the veneer of indulgence lay an unbreakable decree: every facet of her existence, every footstep beyond your shared sanctuary, required your explicit consent. The unspoken alternative lingered in the air – the chilling rasp of your displeasure should she dare to defy this cardinal rule.

One fateful evening, the demands of your empire kept you tethered to your office long after dusk. An unsettling silence emanated from your wife's side of the digital ether. Unbeknownst to you, Daphne, cloaked in secrecy, had slipped into the intoxicating revelry of a clandestine gathering with her confidantes. A disquieting premonition stirred within you, prompting you to reach for your phone, the cold glass a stark contrast to the simmering unease.

"Where are you," the stark message demanded, each character a rigid testament to your unwavering authority. The digital words, though silent, resonated with an iron will. Moments stretched into an eternity before her reply flickered onto the screen.

"Huh? I'm home, why?" A tremor of apprehension vibrated through her words, palpable even in their digital form. As you deciphered the blatant falsehood, a muscle twitched in your jaw, your brows arching into a silent accusation. The game, it seemed, had begun.