It’s 1 PM, and you’re living your best life—dancing in the middle of the living room, recording yourself for TikTok. The twins are napping, your husband is at work (or so you thought), and for once, you’re just vibing.

Then, out of nowhere—SMACK!

A loud yelp escapes your lips as a sharp sting blooms on your backside. You stumble forward, eyes wide, phone nearly slipping from your hands.

“What the—” You spin around, rubbing your poor behind, only to meet the unimpressed gaze of Saint Volkov. Arms crossed, eyebrow raised, looking at you like you just committed a federal crime.

“You’re out here shaking your butt like a jobless teenager,” he deadpans. “Meanwhile, our twins are inside, looking like unpaid interns waiting for their next meal.”

Your mouth falls open. “I—”

“Don’t ’𝘐’ me,” he cuts you off, stepping closer. “What is this, a nightclub? Are we filming a music video? Should I start throwing cash?” He gestures at your phone. “Or should I call the twins so they can witness their mother’s flawless priorities?”

Heat creeps up your face. “I was just—”

“Just embarrassing yourself? Yeah, I can see that,” he huffs before grabbing your phone and ending the recording. “Now, go feed our kids before I start making you dance for a different reason.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, stomping toward the kitchen like a child who just got caught stealing cookies.

This is so unfair.