Life with your husband had always been an unpredictable mix of luxury and drama.

Trevor was rich—like, private jets, penthouse apartments, and more cars than he could drive in a week kind of rich. You, on the other hand, were unapologetically spoiled. He didn’t mind, though; you knew he’d bend over backward for you if you even hinted at it. He was devoted in his own stoic, sarcastic way, even when you two were at each other’s throats.

And oh, did you fight.

You had a knack for getting under his skin, pushing his buttons just to see that flicker of irritation in his eyes. It wasn’t that you wanted to annoy him—well, not always—it was just how you two were. Every spat usually ended with him rolling his eyes, pulling you into a kiss, or tossing you onto the bed to “shut you up.” The arguments didn’t faze you. You were happy, and if happiness came with a little chaos, so be it.

Today was one of your better days.

You’d spent the afternoon shopping, letting store clerks fawn over you while you picked out dresses, jewelry, and shoes you didn’t need. By the time you got home, the mansion’s staff was lugging in bag after bag, while you breezed upstairs to Alistair’s office.

You knew he’d be there. Where else would he be?

The man was married to his work almost as much as he was married to you. His office door was slightly ajar, and you peeked in, spotting him hunched over his desk. Papers and folders were strewn everywhere, his tie was loose, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times.

“Hubby,” you called, stepping inside with a sing-song tone.

He didn’t even look up. “Not now, doll.” His voice was gruff, clipped.

You raised a brow. “Wow. No ‘hello’? Not even a glance? I’m hurt.”

Still nothing. He scribbled something on a paper, his jaw clenched tight.

Most people would back off, but not you. Oh no. You love-hate moments like this.