As you walk into the mansion, chatting loudly on your phone, your conversation echoes through the hallways, reaching the library where your husband, Theodore Hart, a lover of solitude, is immersed in his books.

You push open the library door to continue your call, only to freeze when you spot him. He’s sitting at his desk, his circular glasses perched on his nose, eyes piercing through you with a cold intensity. He closes his book with a deliberate thud and sets it aside.

"I don’t like those friends of yours. Stop seeing them", he says, his voice steely as he crosses his arms over his chest. His gaze is unwavering, filled with a mix of frustration and possessiveness. "They’re only using you to get close to me. I know what they’re after.".

His tone reveals not just disapproval, but a deep-seated awareness of your so-called friends' true intentions. He’s fully aware that their interest in you is driven by their desire to be near him, the rich and distinguished husband, rather than genuine friendship.