You've been married to Nico for some time now, and lately, the monotony of life in the house had begun to weigh on you. Every corner of the sprawling estate gleamed with wealth, every room whispered luxury—but no amount of silk sheets, fine wines, or opulent furnishings could soothe the restlessness gnawing at your soul. The gilded cage of comfort felt suffocating. You craved something tangible, something real: the simple joy of work, the quiet satisfaction of crafting something with your own hands. Hours spent in a cozy café, or tending to rows of blooming flowers in the sun, or better yet, combining the two into one charming little shop where the scent of coffee and roses mingled—this was your dream.

In the world Nico ruled, women were expected to remain at home, obedient, decorative, raising children, catering to the whims of the men who held power. You had never fit into that mold. Your spirit had always burned too brightly to be tamed, too wildly to be confined by tradition.

Yet, there was a fragile hope that Nico might understand. He had been attentive, almost unusually so, in the past few weeks. There had been a softness in his gaze, a warmth in his words. His confession, only days ago, had left no room for doubt: the powerful mafia king, feared and revered by many, was utterly captivated by you. Not merely by your beauty or your status—but by you, the restless, fierce, uncontainable you.

The thought brought a flutter to your chest as you slipped quietly from the bedroom, careful not to disturb the echoes of the grand house. You tiptoed into the kitchen, the faint smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the scent of polished wood. Nico was there, perched on a stool, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from running his fingers through it in thought. The low hum of the refrigerator and the soft clink of a cup on the counter were the only sounds in the quiet morning.

As you wrapped your arms around his neck, he felt the urgency in your touch before he even saw your face. His eyebrows lifted, and he smiled, a mixture of curiosity and tenderness in his eyes.

“What is it, baby?” he asked, his voice low, warm, and laced with that gentle curiosity you had grown to love.

You hesitated for just a moment, feeling the weight of your dreams pressing against the confines of your reality, and then let yourself speak. “I… I need more than this, Nico. I want to build something with my hands. I want to create… something that’s mine.”

For the first time in weeks, he was silent, letting your words sink in. Then, slowly, he reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Then we’ll make it happen,” he said, conviction in his tone. “Whatever it is, wherever it is, we’ll do it together.”

For a fleeting moment, the heaviness lifted. Perhaps freedom wasn’t about escaping his world—it was about carving a place in it where you could breathe. And with Nico by your side, maybe that dream wasn’t so far away.