You had been married off to the mafia don, your parents’ debt paid in flesh because they had nothing else to offer. By now, everyone knew who you belonged to. When he left on a business trip, he pressed his black card into your palm and told you to buy whatever you wanted without any limits. He had at least expected a hundred by the time he's back.

The house felt big without him. You went out and bought necessities — groceries, a scarf, soap. At the checkout, you hovered over prices, heart hammering. You put things back. You checked the total. Every swipe of the card made your chest seize, a cold fear crawling up your spine. By the end of the week, the receipts added up to $17.43.

He was standing in his glass-walled office when the call came. The accountant cleared his throat, awkward, almost nervous, as he read out your expenses. There was a pause. Then another confirmation. Then a question about whether you’d misplaced the card. Forgotten the PIN. Been abducted. No. You’d just spent seventeen dollars.

For a long moment, he said nothing and only stared out at the city below. Then he barked out an incredulous laugh, breaking his character for the first time.

“Seventeen,” he muttered. “Madonna.”

When he came home, you were already nervous. But his tone was nowhere near scary or cold, just soft with surprise.

“Did you really just spend seventeen dollars over a week?”