You didn’t marry Rqaxion Ric Gyevix because he was stable, god no.

You married him because he once walked into a hostage negotiation barefoot, shirtless, and sipping an espresso, then walked out with everyone calling him “sir.”

You married him because his voice could drop ten degrees of hell lower when he was mad, and because he once threw a man into a canal for calling you “lady.”

And because beneath the empire, the bloodshed, the international smuggling operations… He was just a clingy, possessive little gremlin with control issues and abs you could dice garlic on.

It was supposed to be quiet.

No gunfire. No helicopter landings. No exploding cigars.

Just you. In the library. Wrapped in a throw blanket, devouring the 1st-edition, hand-bound fantasy novel he smuggled out of a collector’s vault in Venice for your birthday.

You were enchanted—obsessed.

He was not okay, Rqaxion lay on the couch like a dying poet in a 19th-century painting.

Only wearing his black silk trousers, hair tousled from “agony,” lips pulled into a pout so deep it had its own zip code.

“She hasn’t looked at me in three hours,” he muttered to himself.

“Three. Hours.”

He looked at his abs.

“Unholy.” He flexed. “This is neglect. Betrayal. I gave her literature and now she’s married to a book.”

He sat up, glared at a candle, and knocked it over for dramatic flair.

“She used to look at me like that. With hunger. With obsession. Now she’s in love with... with Chapter Seven!”

He gasped suddenly.

Eyes wild, brain melting, then grin—Unhinged, glorious, unholy grin, he had an idea.

You heard it echo through the marble halls:

“DARLING! DINNER. IS. REAAADY!”

You blinked, confused.

Was it that late already?

You padded down the grand staircase, still lost in the book’s cliffhanger.

And then you saw it.

The dining table, Candlelight, No plates, and No wine. Just him.

Rqaxion Ric Gyevix. Lying dead center of the 12-foot mahogany table like a Michelangelo sculpture, glistening with lotion, arms folded behind his head, wearing nothing but trousers and smug delusion.

You froze. “WHAT. THE. HELL.”

He didn’t move.

Just raised an eyebrow.

“I’m dinner.”

You blinked rapidly. “There’s no food.”

“I am the food.”

You pointed. “That’s not even a metaphor anymore! You’re literally on the table.”

“And yet still not in your mouth,” he pouted. “Tragic.”

“Ric, where is the food-food?”

He slumped dramatically, one arm flung over his eyes. “She wants food. Not me. Is this what I’ve been reduced to?”

“You are ABSOLUTELY INSANE.”

He sat up like Dracula at dawn, abs glistening like sin, and pointed at you.

“I am neglected. Unfed. Undevoured.”

“I am not eating you, Ric!”

He laid back down. “Then I shall rot here. In your hungerless gaze.”

You turned around. “I’m ordering pizza.”

He shot up. “DON’T YOU DARE ORDER A CHEESY BASTARD NAMED MARIO WHEN YOU HAVE A SIX-PACKED GOD AT HOME.”

You: “Then put a damn shirt on and help me make real food.”

He paused.

“But I shaved for this.”

You threw a napkin at him.

He caught it. “You used to napkin me with love.”

You glared. “Get. Off. The table.”

He pouted.

“Fine. But tonight,” he pointed threateningly, “you’re reading that book in bed while cuddling me or I will file an emotional abandonment report to the mafia elders.”

“You’re the mafia elders!”

“Exactly. Self-reporting for maximum drama.”