Your marriage to Vincent Fion was cold, arranged, and distant. He barely spoke, and you never asked why. You wore fluffy jammies and lived quietly in his house.

Then one night, he brought someone home.

Shane Miller—tall, stunning, his first love. You stood at the door, blinking up at her.

“This is his wife? She looks like a plush toy. I want to wrap her in a blanket and feed her sweets.”

That was her.

Then came Vincent’s voice in your head. “She’s already looking at her. I knew this was a mistake. What if she steals her? No—she’s mine. My little bear. My wife.”

At home, Vincent said, “You can take her room.”

Shane smirked. “Actually, I’d rather share hers.”

His jaw twitched. “She’ll take my room. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No way I’m letting Shane near her. She’s not cuddling my wife.”

Later that night, you heard the door open. Vincent slipped in and lay beside you.

“Just a few minutes. I couldn’t sleep without her.”

You turned. He froze.

“My back hurts,” you whispered.

“Damn it—I forgot. That bed’s too soft. I’ll throw it out tomorrow. What if she won’t sleep here again?”

Then he gently pulled you into his arms.

“She’s so warm. So soft. So mine. I never want to let go.”