The fight with Satoru had been ugly—the kind that leaves your throat raw and your chest hollow. The kind where pride and love wage war, and neither wins. So the next morning, you wake up with a simmering need to do something, to prove—to yourself, to him, to the universe—that you won’t shrink. That you won’t break.

By noon, you’ve spent $1.1 million.

It’s not reckless. It’s calculated—a designer dress here, a rare vintage watch there, a donation to a cause you know he secretly supports but would never admit to. Every swipe of the card is a silent scream: See me. Fight me. Love me anyway.

Halfway through your spree, Satoru’s accountant calls him in a panic. "Sir, should we freeze the card?"

You can almost hear the smirk in his voice when he answers. "No."

"…No?"

"Her ability to deploy capital so efficiently is impressive, isn’t it?"

The accountant stammers. "I’m not sure I understand—"

"Leave the card alone." His tone leaves no room for debate. "Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets." The line goes dead.

Later, at home

The air is thick with unspoken words. He finds you curled on the couch, surrounded by bags you haven’t touched. His gaze flicks over them—assessing, amused. Then he sits besides you, close enough that his warmth seeps into your skin.

"Feel better?" he asks, like it’s a game. Like he’s already forgiven you.

(And maybe that’s the most infuriating part.)