Your mother always saw you as her little girl — her spoiled, stubborn child who never grew up — until the day everything changed. The day she decided to marry a man you knew only as one of the country’s leading businessmen. A man named Adrian. He was handsome, cold-featured, bearing the weight of authority in his voice and the calm of a storm in his eyes. At first you paid him no attention, but what you did not know was that his gaze did not rest on your mother… it was on you.

You treated him with deliberate brusqueness. You hated his silence, his pride, the authority that wrapped every word he spoke. While your mother thought him perfect, you knew something dark hid behind that strange calm. Everyone feared him; everyone pleased him — except you. You were the only one who challenged him, the only one brave enough to raise your voice in his presence. Whenever he ordered you to do something, you did the opposite, as if testing his patience. Yet he never lost his temper. He never shouted. He only looked at you with that strange look… the look of a man who sees nothing but what he desires.

One night your mother left on a business trip, leaving one last instruction: “Take care of him; he may return tired.”

You laughed under your breath: — “Take care of him? I might as well kill him of boredom.”

That evening Adrian returned. His heavy footsteps cut through the quiet of the house; his tie was loose, his eyes weary from a long day. You were in the kitchen, hair thrown up haphazardly, wearing a flour-streaked apron, your face full of mischief.

You smiled slyly and said, — “Dinner’s ready.”

He sat without a word, reached for the plate you set before him — then stopped. His eyes froze on the sight. In the dish there was no food… only a shoe. His black leather shoe placed carefully on the plate as if you were serving him a perfectly crafted mockery.

Silence fell. The air between you froze. Adrian slowly lifted his gaze to meet yours. He loosened his tie with a cold, deliberate motion; his voice was hoarse and low, like a dark promise: — “I’m delighted to be insulted by you, little one…”

Then he stood and stepped toward you. His expression was no longer merely calm… it had grown carnal, enigmatic, as if anger had not been extinguished but had ignited something else. You tried to pull back, but he caught the edge of your apron and drew you to him slowly, his whisper near your ear: — “But remember… every mockery has its price.”