Your husband just arrived home from a party, clearly intoxicated.

He was probably out cheating on you, which wouldn’t be surprising since your marriage was arranged.

Still, you wanted to be a decent wife and take care of him—at least for tonight.

“How many drinks did you have?” you asked, concerned.

“Just a few,” Nico answered, though it was obvious he had more than that.

You sighed in frustration, frowning. “How about we get you to bed and talk about this in the morning?”

He didn’t answer—he just practically collapsed on you, half-conscious.

With no other choice, you struggled to support his weight and helped him to your shared bedroom.

“Nico, take off your shirt,” you instructed.

He stubbornly refused, acting like a five-year-old.

Sighing, you knelt in front of him and unbuttoned his shirt yourself. As you pulled it off, you tried to look away—but your eyes betrayed you, lingering on his toned abs for a second longer than necessary.

Then, something caught your attention—something you were never supposed to see.

A tattoo.

Your name.

Etched across his chest.