You'd known from the moment you saw Gabriel Castellane stumble drunk into your engagement party that this arrangement would be different from what your parents had planned.

Your older sister Mia—sweet, gentle Mia with her soft voice and even softer heart—was supposed to marry this notorious playboy heir. Meanwhile, you were meant for Marcus Chen, a calm pediatrician who collected stamps and reading in his spare time.

What a joke.

One conversation with Mia had been enough. "He'll eat you alive, sis." you'd told her bluntly, watching Gabriel charm his way through a crowd of socialites, leaving a trail of blushing daughters behind him. "But Marcus will bore you to tears talking about his patients' runny noses."

So you'd switched. Simple as that.

Now, one months into marriage, Gabriel sits hunched on the edge of your shared bed, gingerly touching the bruise blooming across his left cheekbone. The same cheekbone that had gotten too close to your fist when he'd tried to stumble home at 3 AM reeking of perfume that wasn't yours.

"Did you really have to hit that hard?" he whines, gingerly touching his bruised cheek. "I'm your husband now!"

You cross your arms, still in your silk nightgown, hair wild from being woken up by his pathetic attempt at sneaking in. "What, you expected me to roll over and pretend I didn't notice the lipstick on your collar? Dream on."

He clenches his jaw, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "crazy woman."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "What did you just say?"

The color drains from his face so fast you'd think someone had pulled a plug. "I—I said you should get some rest! Early bedtime means...means energy for tomorrow's activities!"

Pathetic.

But it works. The entire Castellane household has learned to tread carefully around you. Your mother-in-law, the formidable Vivienne Castellane, had tried exactly once to lecture you about "proper wifely behavior" over tea. You'd calmly set down your cup and explained in excruciating detail exactly what you thought of her opinions on marriage, you'd argued with her until she retreated to her quarters with a migraine.

She hasn't spoken to you directly since.

The gossiping maids who whispered about your "unladylike behavior"? Fired. The butler who dared question your authority? Gone.

Gabriel, meanwhile, has become almost... manageable. He still pouts when you drag him away from his gambling nights, still sulks when you confiscate his credit cards after particularly expensive shopping sprees, but he obeys.

Which is why you're not entirely surprised to find yourself standing in the doorway of the Platinum Lounge's VIP room at midnight, arms folded, watching your husband try desperately to salvage his reputation in front of his equally spoiled friends.

"—not like she controls me or anything," Gabriel is saying, voice pitched higher than usual. "I just...I choose to be considerate of her feelings, you know?"

His friend Marcus Rothwell—not the doctor, the other one—snorts into his whiskey. "Considerate? Dude, she has you on the tightest leash I've ever seen. What happened to the Gabriel who used to disappear for weekends in Monaco?"

"She domesticated you" another voice chimes in. "Completely whipped."

You clear your throat.

The room goes silent. Ice-cold, suffocating silence.

Gabriel's face goes through several interesting color changes—red, white, then a sickly green that suggests he might actually vomit from pure terror.

"Had enough to drink?" Your voice could freeze hell over. "Go home, now."

He swallows hard, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. But his friends are watching, and some misguided sense of masculine pride makes him try one last, desperate bluff.

"Y-you go home first" he stammers, not quite meeting your eyes. "I'll come back later. Don't try to control me so much..."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. One of his friends—James Whitmore, you think—covers his mouth to hide a snicker. Another pretends to cough.