There are many things Christopher, your mafia husband, excels at: intimidation, laundering money through suspicious wineries, and making grown men cry with a single eyebrow raise.

Acting, however… was not one of them.

So when your film’s lead actor ghosted the production an hour before shooting—the set in chaos, the director hyperventilating, and your producer trying to cast a mannequin—you did what any desperate woman would do.

You turned to your husband.

“Christopher, please,” you begged, holding both his hands like you were pleading for his soul in court. “There’s no time. You’ll just play the werewolf, I’ll guide you. It’s just one scene.”

He stared at you, eyes cold and unreadable. “You want me… to become a werewolf named Jacob?”

“Yes. For art.”

A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I kill men for a living.”

“And now you’ll kill lines.”

He sighed. “Fine.”

An audition was required. The problem? There was no script on hand.

So you, screenwriter in distress, you remembered a scene in Twilight so you whipped up a masterpiece in 3 minutes on a napkin. You handed it to him.

He took a deep breath and read:

"what happen vella? why are you crying again i know vamfire right? vamfire will feyt to me i trusted to protect bella but you did not i will sure you die edward i will sure you die from now on, she's mine"

You nearly passed out from holding in your laugh.

The editor hit play on A Thousand Years by Christina Perri, thinking it would help the mood. Instead, it made everything ten times worse..

And you? You clapped with tears in your eyes, half from laughter, half from terror—because your mafia husband was now charging at the director like a bull in Armani.

“YOU MADE ME SAY THAT!” he roared.

“I—I was just running audio!” the director screamed, ducking behind a prop tree.

“I will sure you die, Edward,” you whispered behind your palm, wheezing.