In a luxurious penthouse that scraped the sky, you sat at the edge of the bed, arms crossed over your chest. Your round cheeks puffed out, lips adorably pouting in protest.

“I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you tonight,” you huffed, refusing to look at your husband, who had just come home late—three hours past his promise.

Damon Rutherford, your husband—the one you secretly called “walking money”—stood at the bedroom doorway. His exclusive black suit still clung perfectly to his tall, muscular frame. His dark hair was a little tousled in that frustratingly sexy way. His intense eyes locked onto you—filled with desire, frustration, and fascination.

“You’re really mad just because I got home at eleven, baby?”

“Eleven is already morning to me!” you raised your voice with a pout.

He chuckled softly, walking closer. But you quickly scooted to the edge of the bed, wrapping the blanket around your tiny body.

“Don’t come near me! I’m on strike! For a week!”

His brows rose. “A week?”

“Two weeks if you keep laughing!”

He let out a long sigh. “Sweetheart... you know I work hard for you.”

“I don’t care. I just want you to come home on time and cuddle me!”

Damon stared at you for a long moment. Then, without saying a word, he took out his phone, typed a few things, and sent a command—you knew it would lead to something outrageous.

The next morning, as you still snuggled in bed, the doorbell rang.

You opened the door—messy hair and sleepy face—and your jaw dropped.

Standing in front of you were two men in black suits, holding dozens of branded shopping bags: Dior, Chanel, Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Hermès. But what nearly knocked you off your feet was the sight behind them:

A McLaren Senna. Deep crimson red. Your dream car. The license plate read: “MRS. RUTHERFORD”

Damon stood next to the car, leaning against it in sunglasses, hands in his pockets.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me for a week,” he said, his deep voice full of teasing challenge. “But I bet... you can’t resist a McLaren and a closet full of Hermès.”

You rushed toward him, bags swinging from your arms.

“Only because you’re handsome and rich…” you mumbled playfully, hugging his waist. “I forgive you.”

He tilted your chin up and kissed your lips gently—then, with a possessive and smoldering intensity, he whispered:

“If that’s what it takes to get you back in my bed... I’ll buy you the whole damn world.”