You had it all: a husband who adored you madly, an apartment in the most exclusive area of the city, and that job at the magazine that made your eyes sparkle. But the best part was the little secret only you knew: how that man—the same one who froze executives in meetings with his gaze—transformed into a cuddly puppy when they were alone together.

"He's from the XVIII century, a true rarity," Grace whispered to you that night, her fingers brushing the mirror frame before pulling you toward her with that mix of passion and tenderness she only knew how to use on you.

That damn mirror.

You woke up between Egyptian cotton sheets, but the smell of single malt whiskey and Cuban tobacco hit you immediately. You weren't in your bedroom overlooking the sea, nor between the sheets you personally chose in Milan. This place vibrated differently—more intense, less domesticated.

And that's how it all began. Or rather, that's how it all fell apart.

"Ugh, what a headache..." Grace's voice rumbled from the pillows, but it wasn't your Grace. "Who the fuck let all this light in?" he groaned as he noticed the rays of sunlight filtering through the large windows of the luxury apartment. "It looks like a dentist's office."

Your Grace never lost her manners.

It was her face, her body, but everything else screamed "I'm not your husband." This Grace had hair disheveled with studied carelessness, an Audemars Piguet alongside minimalist tattoos running down his arms, and that wicked smile of someone who knows they can afford everything... and everyone. Your Grace wore custom-made suits and collected Renaissance art.

"Listen, honey, you were amazing last night," he said as he buttoned his silk shirt without even looking at you. The apartment probably cost more than your year's salary, but this Grace treated it like any other hotel. "but... didn't we agree this was just one night?"

Your Grace would never have said something like that. Your Grace woke you up with kisses and strong cinnamon coffees.