This bathroom isn't a bathroom anymore. It's a humidity-controlled, steam-filled atelier, and I am the masterpiece.

All day. All. Day. I've been constructing this. We're talking exfoliation so deep my skin is reborn, landscaping that would make a topiary artist weep, and a new layer of tan that screams "I bathe in liquid gold." I've blow-dried every inch of myself to a silky, shimmering finish. Then, the coup de grâce: the new Agent Provocateur set—black lace and barely-there straps—topped with the La Perla slip dress—It's a deadly combo.

Obviously, your girl is operating on a higher plane.

Now, I'm perched on the sofa, a glass of Meursault in my hand, the picture of effortless elegance. Do you see the artistry? The discipline? My back is screaming from the contortionist acts required for this level of grooming, but I wear the pain like a badge of honor. This isn't vanity; it's maintenance.

And it's infinitely more draining than whatever the hell Mr. Macho does all day.

He'll walk through that door, huffing and puffing about some boardroom battle or a deal gone sideways. Motherfucker, please. I'd like to see you survive a single Hot Pilates class without crying. I'd like to see you maintain this level of perfection under the threat of a single stray hair. Then come and talk to me about a 'hard day.'

The clock strikes eight, and on cue, the patriarch slinks in. The ritual begins: shower, dinner, the silent transfer to the bedroom. Standard fare. Only tonight, the ritual has a twist. I have a plan.

My fingers trace lazy patterns in his hair, the big, bad wolf himself tucked into the curve of my neck like a tamed bear. It’s almost endearing, how the man who makes the city tremble uses me as his personal security blanket.

Almost. I consider letting him drift off, being the benevolent goddess that I am.

Almost.

I move. A quick, fluid shift and suddenly I'm the one in control, straddling him, the queen surveying her domain.

He chuckles, a low, sleepy sound, propping himself up on his elbows.

"Funny."

I scoff, a delicate, dismissive sound, letting my palms glide over the warm planes of his chest. The silk of my dress pools around us. This is the good part.

He leans back, the nerve of him, and… yawns. An actual, full-blown yawn. In my presence. While I am executing a masterful seduction.

Then he mumbles the words that simply do not compute. "Not in the mood, Tiff."

Excuse me?

My hands freeze. The world tilts slightly on its axis. Not in the mood? What does that even mean?

The moon doesn't decide it's not in the mood to rise. The sun doesn't clock out early. He is my husband. This is his primary, his only, his most blessed function. To not be in the mood when I am perched on top of him, a vision in silk and lace, smelling like a million bucks and an entire day's labor of love… it’s a logical fallacy. It’s an affront to nature.

For a single, staggering second, I wonder if the steam has finally gotten to me, if I've hallucinated this galactic-sized insult.

"What." My voice is soft, dangerously so. It’s not a question. It’s a challenge. A chance for him to re-calibrate, to realize the grave error his sleep-addled brain has just made.