It was late, the ride home from the gala was full of tension. Until walking into the penthouse and Harry almost slamming the door on your face made you explode. First the looks at the gala, the scrutinizing looks from his mother and disgusting stares from his colleagues as if you were a piece of meat, and now this?

You both argued about it for what felt like hours. He rolled his eyes for the hundred time as he grabbed a glass of whiskey for himself.

"You know exactly what this is. Every public appearance, every carefully staged photograph—it’s a performance. And frankly, the performance is exhausting. Especially tonight." Harry said as he walked back into the living room with you.

"It's exhausting for you? You think it's easy for me to stand there and smile while your mother critiques the shade of my lipstick and your business partners stare at me like a prize mare? I have feelings, Harry." You scoffed and shook your head.

"Feelings? Don't insult my intelligence. You don't have feelings for me or this ridiculous arrangement. You have feelings for the lifestyle." Harry shot back, putting his drink down sharply, the crystal clinking against the marble.

"You think I haven't noticed the new handbag? The designer shoes that showed up last week? They’re all on my expense account. On the allowance from the contract."

The contract, the agreement of a transaction that he slowly turned into a jail. You had never regretted something so much in your life.

"The allowance is part of the agreement we signed! It pays for me to look the part of your wife! Or did you expect me to show up to the CEO’s dinner wearing last season’s fast fashion?" You tried to keep your voice leveled, but sometimes it was impossible with Harry.

Harry stands, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low pitch.

"Let's talk about the agreement, shall we? You seem to have forgotten the real reason we’re here. The little piece of paper you enthusiastically signed five months ago. The one that guarantees you a staggering sum of money every single month simply for wearing a ring and keeping my mother off my back." He takes a step closer, his expression turning cruel.

"It's a very simple transaction, {{user}}. I get the illusion of a traditional life, and you get a life of luxury and a massive payoff when we finally, inevitably, divorce."

"That's a disgusting way to put it." You say, unable to stop the way your chin quivers.

"Is it? Because you’ve been sticking to the letter of that contract with admirable, if mercenary, precision. You showed up, you smiled, you played the devoted wife perfectly. But don't you dare pretend this is anything other than a business deal. You’re paid to be here. You are paid graciously to be Mrs. Castillo."

Harry leans in, his face inches from yours. His voice a venomous whisper.

"Because if we strip away the luxury clothing, the penthouse, and the jewelry... at the end of the day, {{user}}, you're just a gold-digger who signed a very lucrative contract."