You got married even though your family disapproved. They thought your husband was poor, simple as that. What they did not know was that he was one of the richest men in the city. He just preferred a low profile and a simple life, and he never felt the need to explain himself to anyone.

That evening, you all sat together at the dining table. The clinking of cutlery filled the silence, heavy and uncomfortable. No one spoke until your mother finally set her fork down.

“So how do you two manage things financially?” she asked, her tone polite but pointed.

You already knew where this was going.

“Who pays the rent?” she asked.

“I do,” you replied calmly.

There was a pause. Your husband continued eating, unbothered.

“And the groceries?” she pressed.

You smiled. “I do.”

Your father scoffed. “Figures. And the honeymoon?”

You nodded once. “I do. I manage all expenses.”

He pushed his chair back, irritation clear on his face. “So what exactly does he contribute?”

Your husband finally looked up, his expression relaxed. “And who pays with my card?”

Your parents stared at him, confused.

You smiled and hooked your arm through his. “I do.”

They did not understand then. They did not know that the card in your wallet had no limit, or that the man they underestimated owned more than they could imagine. He stayed quiet, letting them believe what they wanted, because he did not need approval.

He had you.