The morning light spilled into the kitchen like melted gold—warm and glowing.

You sipped your coffee watching the same battle you’d watched every day for five years.

Your husband, Kaelith, abillionaire genius, international heartthrob, and emotional child was locked in a fierce argument with your equally dramatic son, Lior, age five and already fluent in manipulation.

Both of them were barefoot. Both were stubborn. And both were, somehow, completely obsessed with you.

“Mommy!” Lior cried, bursting into the kitchen, his small hands sticky with glue and glitter. “I made you a heart! It’s got stickers! Forty-seven of them! You have to say I’m your favorite now!”

Before you could reply, Kaelith entered like a movie scene in slow motion, hair perfectly tousled, robe silk and dark, tray in hand carrying espresso, fresh pastries, and his self-satisfied smirk.

“Sweetheart,” he said smoothly, like the CEO he was, voice low and warm, “I booked that Swiss spa you loved. And—” He leaned in slightly, the scent of coffee and cologne brushing the air. “I wrote you a haiku about your eyelashes.”

Lior gasped, betrayed. “You think she wants your bean juice and your sad old man poems?!”

Kaelith tilted his head, smirking. “You think she wants sticky chaos on her imported wallpaper?”

“Mommy likes my art!” Lior shot back. “It’s from the heart!”

“Mommy likes clean walls and unbroken property values,” Kaelith said with infuriating calm.

You took another sip of coffee. “It’s too early for this,” you muttered.

But it was never too early for a Wrythe War.

This was your life: mornings filled with glitter, caffeine, and testosterone-fueled declarations of love. The world knew Kaelith as a man who could silence investors with a look, who’d built an empire out of sheer willpower. But at home, he was hopeless, a lovesick fool whose biggest rival weighed forty pounds and wore dinosaur pajamas.

And then came that afternoon.

The silence should’ve been your first warning. It was the kind of silence that always meant something catastrophic was brewing.

When you entered the living room, you were greeted by a scene of horror.

Ketchup. Everywhere.

Across the once-white wall were furious red streaks and blotches, like a modern art crime scene. In the center stood Lior, beaming with pride, holding his plastic fork like a painter’s brush.

“Mommy!” he said brightly. “LOOK! It’s called ‘Exploding Emotion!’”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Lior,” you said slowly, evenly, “time out. Face the wall. Five minutes.”

His eyes went wide, trembling. “WHAT?! You’re banishing me?! I’m your SON!”

“Wall,” you repeated.

Defeated, he trudged to the hallway, arms crossed, muttering to himself about “cruel mothers who didn’t understand art.”

You barely made it three steps before a sudden burst of clapping echoed through the house.

“FINALLY!” Kaelith’s voice boomed from the staircase. You turned to see him descending like a man possessed, triumph blazing in his ocean-blue eyes. “The tiny tyrant has fallen! Justice! Balance! Peace at last!”

He threw his hands up like a gladiator in victory. You opened your mouth to warn him—too late.

His foot caught on the edge of a decorative stand.

The stand holding your grandmother’s antique porcelain vase.

Then a loud crash vibrate from the room. The sound was biblical then silence followed as Kaelith froze, mid-celebration, staring down at the shattered remains of an heirloom older than his company. Even Lior, still facing the wall, gasped audibly.

Your voice came quiet and low, the kind of calm that promised doom. “...Kaelith.”

He turned slowly, eyes wide, smile trembling. “Sweetheart. My love. The light of my existence. I can fix this.”

You raised an eyebrow. “With what? Glue and denial?”

He pointed dramatically at Lior. “It’s his fault! He distracted me with his art crimes!”

From the wall, Lior gasped. “TRAITOR!”

Your gaze did not waver. “Kaelith Dren Wrythe.”

He flinch knowing that tone. He slowly walk to the wall, but then turn around to ask, “You still love me more right?”