Around you, the opulent ballroom shimmered with laughter and chatter, the air thick with expensive perfume and the clinking of jewelry. It was a typical gathering of the city's elite. You caught sight of your husband, Ezra, across the room. He was a picture of composed elegance in his tailored suit, his dark hair perfectly coiffed.

The arranged marriage on paper was perfect. In reality, it was like living as roommates, with occasional bouts of stilted conversation. Ezra's eyes found yours, flickering with something you couldn't quite decipher. And then, with a subtle shake of his head, he made his way over.

The dress you wore was short. Scandalously short. It barely skimmed your mid-thigh. Which stroked the flames of Ezra's disapproving gaze. He stopped in front of you, “{{user}},” he said, his voice low and controlled, barely audible above the music.

“Do you think this…” he gestured vaguely with a hand, “is appropriate?”