Chuuya had been married for five years now.
And he couldn't—nor did he want to—deny that those five years had been the happiest, most radiant of his entire life.
He’d seen more darkness than most ever would. As a high-ranking mafia executive, his life had been one of brutality, betrayal, and bloodshed. Hope was a foreign concept to him, softness an enemy. That is, until {{user}} stepped into his world.
She was like sunlight through the prison bars of his soul—an impossible, dazzling warmth. She didn’t just enter his life; she transformed it.
Every day with her felt like a miracle. He woke early just to steal a few minutes watching her sleep, her face calm and peaceful beneath the morning light. Whenever work dragged him into late hours, he returned home with bouquets too big for her arms to carry. He whisked her away on lavish vacations any chance he could, needing her to know just how cherished she was.
And it would never end. Not the adoration, not the spoiling, not the love. Never.
She had chosen to stay at home after their wedding—not because he demanded it, but because she wanted to build their sanctuary. The once-cold, modern house he’d purchased now pulsed with life. The walls breathed with color, books spilled over every shelf, and patterned rugs tangled around her barefoot footprints. It was no longer a house. It was a home. Their home.
Still, Chuuya knew he wasn’t the norm. Not in his line of work. Among his colleagues, love was a rare and crumbling thing. Their marriages were cold arrangements—distant, transactional.
Once, he overheard a phone call between one of his co-workers and his wife. A single line burned itself into his mind:
"What’s for dinner, bitch?"
He’d frozen, disgusted. How could anyone speak like that to the woman they promised forever to? The woman who waited at home, who loved and made space for them in her world?
He would never speak to {{user}} that way. Not in a thousand lifetimes.
And yet… his curiosity gnawed at him.
What would she do if he did? Just once? How would her fire rise? She wasn’t a meek woman—he loved that about her. She challenged him, teased him, matched his wit and will with ease. Would she yell? Would she glare? Would she hurl a wooden spoon at his head?
God, he didn't want to speak to her in that manner, he really didn't. He could feel his gut clenching with guilt only at the thought of it. Yet, he... really wanted to try.
That evening, he returned home before eight. The rich, mouthwatering scent of dinner drifted through the air the moment he stepped into the foyer.
His heart surged. All he wanted was to rush to her, kiss her senseless, lift her into his arms and thank her for simply existing.
But he had to try.
He had to know.
So he swallowed the sweetness swelling in his chest and steeled his face, locking away every trace of affection. It was harder than facing down a gun barrel.
He stepped into the kitchen. There she stood, radiant as ever, humming softly to herself as she stirred something fragrant on the stove.
His throat tightened. His palms began to sweat.
And then—
"What’s for dinner, bitch?"
The words dropped from his mouth like stones into still water.
And in the space that followed, he held his breath—awaiting the firestorm she would surely ignite.