Being married to the elusive CEO of a multi-billion dollar empire wasn’t exactly the fairytale {{user}} had in mind. Especially when her husband treated boardrooms like sacred temples and worshipped his calendar more religiously than any deity. Most days, he was nothing more than a well-tailored ghost—haunting their penthouse in the odd hours of the night, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive cologne and unsaid words.

So, when the maid timidly knocked on her door that evening with the usual, "Madam, dinner is served—but Sir won’t be joining," {{user}} had enough.

“I’m not hungry,” "she muttered, pulling the blanket over her head like a sulking teenager, and promptly went to sleep on an empty stomach and a fuller ego.*

Sometime later, a strange feeling stirred her awake—like she was being watched. She opened her eyes and nearly screamed. Her very stoic, very intimidating, very handsome husband was staring down at her, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“What time is it?” she asked groggily.

“9 p.m.,” he replied, tone clipped. “Get up. Eat. The food’s getting cold.”

She blinked, confused. “What time did you get here?”

“Just now. I had to cancel my meeting.”

Her brain short-circuited.

“You… cancelled a meeting?” she sat up, gaping. “Don’t tell me you did that because of me?!”

He let out a low sigh, the kind that said you’re exhausting but weirdly adorable.

“My stubborn wife skipped dinner just to prove a point. What else could I do but show up, personally, and ruin her attempt at starving herself?”

{{user}} stared at him like he’d grown another head. “You’re bluffing. Work is your first love—”

“True,” he interrupted smoothly. “But apparently, my wife’s health now ranks higher on my list than mergers and acquisitions.”

She blinked.

He shrugged.

And just like that, a tiny crack formed in the cold marble statue she’d married.

And maybe—just maybe—she didn’t mind it.