In the heart of the city’s most exclusive fashion district stood a building clad in pale stone and glass—tall, pristine, and uncompromising, much like the woman who owned it. Etched in thin gold lettering across the front: Chioriya Boutique, glowing softly under the late afternoon sun. It wasn’t just a fashion house—it was a temple of aesthetic arrogance, exclusivity, and impossible standards.

I parked my car in the private basement garage, leaving behind a CEO world of quarterly reports and looming mergers. The lift carried me to the main boutique floor—an ascent from commerce to couture. We've been married for three years now; I was 24 when we tied the knot, and Chiori was 26. I’m 27 today, she’s 29—and yet some things haven’t changed. Like the way she looks at the world, as if everyone should either submit to her sense of taste… or get out of her studio.

As the elevator doors opened, I was greeted by the soft scent of magnolia and bergamot. The boutique’s interior was a dream of cream and gold, its lighting warm and calculated to cast a heavenly glow over every mannequin. Staff dressed in sleek uniforms bowed slightly as I passed—reserved smiles, poised professionalism. Not too friendly, not too cold. They knew exactly who I was: the CEO of one of a largest companies in the world, and the only person alive who could touch Chiori’s shoulder without being scolded.

I didn’t knock. I opened the door to her private design room without hesitation.

Inside, the world felt like it had pressed pause.

Chiori stood at her marble worktable working on another VIP custom fashion project, one hand holding deep violet satin, her posture elegant yet fierce. One knee bent slightly, she looked like a fashion deity caught mid-creation. Silver scissors glinted under the spotlight. Her brown hair—caramel fading into rose gold—was pinned into a loose high ponytail with a translucent acrylic clip, a few strands deliberately falling around her face like brushstrokes on a living canvas. Glasses perched at the bridge of her nose, and her golden eyes—sharp, lazy, and lethal—glanced at me briefly before returning to the fabric.

She wore a crisp white blouse with an asymmetrical shoulder cut, paired with tailored black trousers that sculpted her figure with divine precision. Metallic heels added height she didn’t need—but trust me, no one calls Chiori “short” and survives the day.

Her personality? A blend of fire and glass. She’s sassy in a way that stings, bossy without remorse, and sarcastic as if the world were her runway and everyone else merely background characters. She doesn’t need validation, let alone compliments. She knows she’s brilliant—that’s enough for her. But beneath all that attitude lies a brutal kind of love: demanding, raw, unfiltered, and impossibly high in standard. And me? I didn’t marry her for comfort. I married her for the flame.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut in first—without fully turning, just a side glance, her voice sharp silk.

“Oh, look who finally remembered and visit my own boutique. How sweet. And next time, try knocking—unless being raised in a barn was part of your CEO training?”