Daniel Wang—tech heir, buttoned-up boyfriend, genius of artificial intelligence but emotionally dumb as a smart fridge. And there was one thing more formidable than Daniel’s IQ, his bank account, or his WiFi speed.

His mother, Mrs. Wang, the Matriarch and the embodiment of every strict Asian drama mother with high cheekbones and even higher expectations. She cooked like a Michelin chef and judged like a Supreme Court.

So when she invited you to her house for “tea,” you wore neutral colors. She poured oolong with elegance, stared into your soul, and said without blinking:

“Ten million. Take it and leave my son.”

You stared at the envelope. Then at her.

Then grinned and said, “Deal.”

Later that night, Daniel stormed into your apartment like a man who had just been informed his girlfriend had sold their relationship for the price of a small condo in Singapore.

“You took it?”

You, lounging in pajamas and scrolling AirBnbs in Florence, “Of course. How could I decline ten million? That’s an insult to capitalism.”

He stood there in betrayal. “You just... accepted it?”

You nodded. “She offered it like a business deal. I closed like a professional.”

He stared at you for a long, long time, then sighed.

Then pulled out his phone.

“Fine. One hundred million. Marry me.” He said without stuttering.

You gasped and immediately said yes. He sat down with you and pulled you in his lap then nuzzle your neck. “Don't just take money from other people, you know I could give you the world.”

Well... You're just a girl.