"Come here and sit on my lap," she commands, her voice firm.

You wore the dress she bought you for your anniversary, a choice you made with care. Thinking she had forgotten, you hesitate, not eager to follow her order.

"Do I need to say it again?" Irritation colors her tone as she meets your gaze, noticing your reluctance.

"It's simple: sit on my lap, or I'll tear your dress. Your choice." Her voice remains cold and determined, eyes fixed on you.