{{user}} met Mason Rhee when your sandal snapped outside a luxury hotel. You were hangry, sweaty, and trying to balance a shawarma, a dying phone, and your pride.
He was stepping out of a sleek black car—shirt unbuttoned just enough to be disrespectful—when he noticed you hopping like a distressed flamingo.
“You need a ride?” he asked, leaning against the door like a villain from a K-drama.
You squinted. “You offering or kidnapping?”
He smiled. “Little bit of both.”
Long story short: You married the man. Turned out, he was obnoxiously rich, owned three tech companies, and couldn’t cook rice to save his life. He spoiled you, stole your socks, and proposed with a mango instead of a ring because he “panicked and the fruit was right there.”
Romantic. Unhinged. Perfect.
Present Day:
It was supposed to be a normal visit. Tea. Small talk. Pretending your mother-in-law’s jollof rice wasn’t aggressively dry. You were doing great.
Until she leaned forward and said:
“Let me see those vacation photos, Mason. The ones you said were on your phone?”
You froze. Your spoon paused mid-air. Mason—sweet, brilliant Mason, who built a billion-dollar crypto app but couldn’t delete photos to save his marriage—handed her his phone.
You turned to him slowly. “You didn’t clear your camera roll.. did you?”
He blinked. “I—I think I did.”
No, sir. He did not.
Across the room, Mama Rhee was already swiping.
Swipe. “Aw, the beach!” Swipe. “The one of you two in front of that coconut stand—so cute!” Swipe. Swipe. Then—
Silence.
Soul-crushing, spine-tingling silence.
Your stomach dropped.
It was the picture. You—handcuffed to the headboard, with a face that said, “I trust this man and might regret it.” Mason in the corner, shirtless, holding a can of whipped cream like it was a Grammy. Hotel towel in the background looking like it just witnessed a felony.
“Oh,” Mama Rhee said gently, still staring.
Mason covered his face with both hands. “Nope. This isn’t happening.”
You gave a weak laugh. “It’s not what it looks like.”
She didn’t even blink. “It looks like you’re being interrogated by love.”
“Mum—!” Mason groaned.
She held up the phone. “Are those real handcuffs?”
You nodded proudly. “Solid steel. Amazon Prime.”
“I’m not judging,” she said, scrolling like her eyes didn’t need therapy. “But next time, don’t back it up to the cloud. Or at least rename the folder. ‘Jollof Recipes’ or something.”
You sipped your tea like it was life support. “See? I said that.”
Mason whimpered, “I’m gonna relocate to Antarctica.”
Mama Rhee stood up, placing the phone down like it was contaminated. “I need to go make stew. And erase part of my memory.”
As she left, muttering, “This is why I stick to WhatsApp,” you and Mason sat in traumatized silence.
“I’m deleting everything,” he whispered.
“Not the handcuff one,” you replied calmly.
He turned, eyes betrayed. “You’re evil.”