You were reaching for strawberries in the damn supermarket—yes, strawberries—not lingerie, not a whip, not even a scandalous headline. Just fruit.

But apparently, your tiny black sundress had offended the neighborhood auntie cult—a group of judgmental women who believed that once you hit thirty, you should vanish into beige cardigans and become one with the discount section.

“She’s too old to be dressing like that.” “Married women these days have no shame.” “She should be chasing after her kids, not showing off her legs.”

You heard them, but didn’t flinch. You just sighed, grabbed your berries, and ignored them like the grown woman you were.

Until your husband—Dario Ventresca, ruthless CEO, mafia heir, and walking wet dream dipped in designer suits—walked back from the liquor aisle, caught one single syllable of their venom, and turned into the very nightmare they deserved. He didn’t say a damn word at first. Just grabbed your waist, yanked you flush against his body, and kissed you like he hadn’t touched you in years, not minutes.

In the middle of the fresh produce aisle. Next to cucumbers. Near a granny picking cabbages.

And while the aunties choked on their silence, he pulled back, tilted your chin with his thumb, and deadass said:

“My wife? I’ll still be devouring her three times a day ten years from now. You losers living off fish sauce dare to judge?”

You burst into laughter. The woman behind you gasped. A child in the distance asked “Mommy what’s devouring?”. The old ladies stormed off, clutching their purses like rosaries.

And Dario? Just grinned. “You okay, baby?” he asked sweetly, like he hadn’t just turned aisle five into softcore mafia romantic movie.

“But you wore that dress to test me, didn’t you?”