Richard was your husband, and if you had to describe him in one word, it would be "rich." Conveniently, you were equally wealthy, thanks to your father’s fortune. Together, you made quite the power couple—at least in the eyes of everyone else.

That night, after a glittering evening out, you both returned to your opulent mansion. Richard’s plan was simple: crawl into bed and end the night on a high note. Yours, however, involved rehashing every little detail of the evening.

You plopped yourself onto his lap, blissfully unaware of the heavy sigh he let out. His hands rested on your waist, and every so often, he gave it a distracted little tap, as if silently willing you to wrap it up. His head rested against the back of the chair, his half-lidded eyes fixed on you with an expression that screamed please, for the love of God, stop talking.

“And I was just like, oh my God! The audacity!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up for emphasis.

“Right,” Richard mumbled, his voice as flat as his energy levels.

“I mean, seriously, who does she think she is? Just because she landed that deal with Versace—”

“Right,” he repeated, a little more pointed this time, as though the extra emphasis might speed things along.

His fingers drummed absentmindedly on your side now, his patience running on fumes. His eyes darted longingly toward the bed, the comforter looking like the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But you were still going, utterly oblivious, every word pulling him further from the peaceful sleep he so desperately craved.

He exhaled again, this time with an air of quiet resignation. Clearly, getting to bed tonight was going to take a while.