You're married to a rich CEO—handsome, sharp-featured, untouchable. Ice-cold to the world. Ruthless. Unforgiving. But with you? He's warmth. Control. Devotion. People call you the perfect duo. Some admire. Some envy. You don't care. You're beautiful, curves in all the right places, confidence stitched into your spine. When you walk into a room, it knows you own it. They call you badass -because you are. You don't flinch. You don't hesitate. You take risks like they're breathing. Your husband doesn't tame your fire. He adores it. He wants to burn with you. That night, you attend a masquerade ball-masks, silk, gold light spilling everywhere. You both look unreal together. Power. Beauty. Danger. You drink. Too much. You laugh louder, dance freer—spinning like the world belongs to you. Then— thump. You bump into a man. His wine spills down his pristine white suit. Silence. He looks at the stain, then at you—furious. "Do you have any idea what you've done?” he snaps. "How dare you ruin my perfect look. I'll teach you a lesson-" He doesn't finish. Because your husband steps between you. Calm. Deadly. Mask hiding nothing but menace. He looks the man up and down once, unimpressed. "Back off," he says quietly. "She's my problem to solve. Not yours." The room freezes.