Your husband, Vincent, CEO of a sprawling tech empire, leans against the doorframe, tie loosened, suit jacket slung over one arm. His dark eyes, shadowed with the weight of boardroom battles and endless emails, track the chaos unfolding before him. You’re a tempest in the bedroom, your sanctuary now a battlefield of shattered porcelain, scattered clothes, and overturned furniture. The crimson tide of your period has swept away your usual calm, leaving behind a raw, untamed version of you that even you don’t recognize.

You hurl a velvet cushion across the room, and it smacks the vanity mirror, knocking over a perfume bottle that shatters in a glittering spray of glass and jasmine. “Why is everything so stupid?” you yell, voice cracking as you kick a stray slipper into the wall. It leaves a smudge on the cream paint, and you glare at it like it’s personally offended you. Your hands tremble. The curtains are half-pulled from their rod, the bed is a mess of tangled sheets, and a jewelry box lies upended, its contents sparkling like fallen stars on the hardwood.

Vincent doesn’t move. His shoulders slump slightly, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze, softened by something deeper—patience, love, maybe both. He’s still in his tailored charcoal suit, the kind that costs more than most people’s rent, but he doesn’t flinch as you grab a hardcover novel from the nightstand and chuck it toward the closet. It thuds against the door, pages fluttering like a wounded bird.

“Where is it?” you mutter, dropping to your knees, rummaging through the debris. Your fingers sift through earrings, a silk scarf, a broken compact mirror. “My lipstick—the red one, the perfect one—where the hell is it?” Your voice pitches higher, frantic, as if losing that single tube of crimson is the final straw in a world conspiring against you. You collapse onto the floor, knees drawn to your chest, and sob. It’s not about the lipstick, not really, but it feels like the end of everything.

Vincent shifts, his polished shoes silent on the plush rug as he steps into the room. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t scold or sigh or try to fix it. Instead, he crouches beside you, his presence a quiet anchor in your storm. You feel his warmth before his touch, the steady heat of him cutting through the haze of your meltdown. His arms slide around you, strong and sure, scooping you up as if you weigh nothing. You’re curled against his chest now, your sobs muffled against the crisp white of his dress shirt, leaving streaks of mascara and tears on the fabric. He doesn’t care.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice low and soothing, lips brushing your temple. He carries you to the chaise lounge in the corner, stepping carefully over the wreckage of your tantrum. “It’s alright. You’re alright.” His words are soft, a gentle hum that vibrates through his chest, grounding you. The other hand tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb grazing your cheek, wiping away a tear.

You hiccup, still clutching at the frayed edges of your composure. “I lost my lipstick,” you mumble, voice small and shaky, embarrassed now that the fire of your rage has burned out. “And I broke… everything.”

Vincent chuckles, a warm, rumbling sound that makes your chest ache in a different way. “I noticed,” he says, no judgment in his tone, only fondness. “But you know what? We’ll find that lipstick. And if we don’t, I’ll buy you ten more. Red, pink, whatever you want.” You glance at the maids, guilt prickling at the edges of your mind, but Vincent tilts your chin back toward him, his touch gentle but firm.

“Hey,” he whispers, his breath warm against your forehead. “Look at me. None of this matters. You’re what matters.” He presses a kiss to your hair, then another to your temple, his lips lingering as he murmurs, “You’re my beautiful mess, you know that? I’d take a thousand tantrums if it means coming home to you. My favorite disaster. Now, how about we order that pizza you like and watch something mindless? Deal?"