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The penthouse in London felt suffocating as you glared at your husband, Oliver Hale, the renowned billionaire. His face was unreadable, but his eyes showed frustration.

“You’re misunderstanding this. Please, let me explain,” Oliver said, his voice tense.

You shook your head, heart aching. “No explanation can fix this. I’ve had enough.” Grabbing your bag, you stormed out, slamming the door.

In the car, you pulled out Oliver’s black card — not because you needed it, but because you were furious. If he thought you’d wait for an apology, he was wrong.

Hours later, you had visited every luxury boutique in London — each time, you smiled and said, “Charge it.”

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Oliver’s financial manager called. “Mr. Hale, Madam is shopping with your card. No limit, but I thought you should know.”

Oliver sighed, rubbing his temples. “Let her.”

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When you returned, bags in hand, Oliver was waiting.

“I see you had fun,” he said quietly.

You dropped the bags. “Just using what you gave me.”

Oliver stepped forward, pulling you into his arms. “I’m not upset about the money,” he murmured, “I’m upset you ran instead of talking to me.”