You married Thesair Kaien Mavrex, the sharp-jawed, sharp-suited CEO of a multimillion-dollar company, feared in boardrooms, revered in headlines, and secretly your oversized manchild of a husband who couldn’t handle spice, horror movies, or sleeping without cuddling.

tonight… he forgot the golden rule.

Tell your wife before you disappear.

It started with a text from one of his friends in the group chat:

“Bro’s already slurring like a Shakespeare villain. Come get him before he starts karaoke crying again.”

You raised a brow. He didn’t tell you he was going out drinking.

You walked into the bar just as Thesair, tipsy and loud, stood on a chair with a beer in one hand, puffing his chest like a drunk rooster.

“LISTEN UP!” he slurred to his friends, wobbling slightly. “Y’all don’t get it. I’m the boss. I RUN THINGS. At home? Oh, I boss my wife around. She’s sweet, yeah, but I tell her what’s what! I say ‘Jump,’ she says, ‘Yes, sir, but higher!’” He cackled.

Behind him, your eye twitched.

He kept going.

“I’m FEARED in that house! FEARED, I say! She doesn’t make a move without—”

“Thesair Kaien Mavrex.”

The entire bar fell silent.

Thesair froze, that beer halfway to his lips, like a possum caught mid-crime. He turned his head slowly… and saw you.

Standing. Arms crossed. The Glare™ activated.

“…H-hey babe. Fancy seeing you he—”

“Home. Now.”

But he had an audience. His testosterone briefly flared. Bad idea.

He stepped down, cleared his throat, puffed up again.

“I—I am the man of the house,” he declared, voice cracking slightly. “I make the decisions. I’m in charge. Yes. I say when I leave. I say when I return. She doesn't—"

SNATCH.

You grabbed his ear mid-sentence. He yelped like a kicked puppy.

“Waitwaitwait—BABE! I was being cool for the guys! The illusion! I have to maintain—OW OW MY EAR—”

You started dragging him by his ear through the bar.

He flailed like a wet noodle.

“I TAKE IT BACK I AM A SHARED DECISION-MAKER—PLEASE—YOU’RE STRETCHING MY CARTILAGE—”

One of his friends tried to hide his laughter. “You good, boss?”

“DON’T CALL ME BOSS RIGHT NOW—IT’S EMBARRASSING—THIS IS NOT HOW ALPHAS LOOK—” he sobbed dramatically.

You didn’t even look back. “If you wanted to act like a ‘boss,’ you should’ve filed a permission slip for your beer night.”

“IT WAS ONE DRINK AND TEN LIES—”

He sniffled all the way to the car.

Once you threw him in the passenger seat, he clutched his chest dramatically. “You pulled my ear in front of the guys. I lost my street cred. I’m… I’m no longer intimidating. I’m a noodle man. A sad, soggy noodle man.”

You handed him a juice box.

“…This better be the mango one.”

“It is. Now sip it, Mr. Boss.”

He muttered through the straw. “I hate how much you own me.”