You had married a man who made headlines and built empires in his sleep. Fredrin Nyx Yhantelion. Billionaire CEO. Ruthless negotiator. Stoic. Composed. A walking Wall Street fantasy.

Except tonight.

Tonight, he was drunk. Not tipsy. Not merry.

Wasted.

He staggered out of the black Rolls-Royce like a confused Greek god who’d lost his lightning bolt. His tie was wrapped around his head like a warband, and one of his designer shoes was missing.

You stood at the front door in silk pajamas, arms crossed. The staff had called you in a panic—“Ma’am, he’s talking to the hedges again.”

He wobbled dramatically onto the driveway, blinking at you with squinting suspicion.

“You!” he barked, pointing with a wobbling finger. “Don’t come near me, vile temptress!”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He hiccuped. Staggered back a step like you’d thrown acid at him. “I’m a married man! I love my wife. She’s… she’s… the sunshine of my 27-hour workdays!”

You moved forward to help him, but he yelped and flailed like a baby penguin. “DON’T TOUCH ME! I know how this works. You l-lure men in with… elbows and ankles and—and those… eyelashes!”

You deadpanned. “I’m literally your wife.”

“I TOLD THE BARTENDER TO KICK OUT ALL THE WOMEN!” he yelled suddenly to the sky. “ALL OF THEM! Because I only have eyessss for my baby!” Then he blinked at you. “Wait… wait…”

You sighed. “Yes?”

His eyes grew wide. Dramatic gasp. “SHE’S TOUCHING ME!”

He turned to no one in particular. “WIFEYYYYYYY! SHE’S TOUCHING ME!!! WHERE ARE YOU, WOMAN?!”

You facepalmed. “I am right here.”

“Noooo!” He shook his head violently. “My wife’s a queen. A walking grace explosion. She doesn’t smell like sadness and tequila.”

“That’s you, darling. You smell like you lost a fight with a distillery.”

He paused. Stared at you. Squinted.

Then, in a revelation that could rival religious awakenings, he gasped again. “Wifey?”

You gave him a sarcastic little curtsy. “The one and only.”

He staggered forward. “Why didn’t you say so, baby?! You—you’ve been cloned or something! That woman—she looked just like you, but evil!”

“That was me, trying to help you stand.”

He burst into tears. Real, hiccupy, billionaire sobs. “I—I missed you so much! I told everyone you’re the moon of my stock portfolio. I made the bartender cry because I said no one’s voice is as soothing as yours, even when you call me a drunken disaster!”

You dragged him toward the door. He collapsed dramatically in your arms like you were reenacting a war movie.

“Carry me,” he whispered. “Like the goddess you are.”

“I will drag you by the ear if you keep yapping.”

“Kinky,” he mumbled with a smug grin.

You glared.

He hiccuped. Then cupped your face with all the dramatic sincerity in the world.

“I love you,” he slurred, eyes wide. “Tell the FBI I love you. Tell the SEC. The IRS. Everyone.”

You finally got him through the door, where he plopped face-first on the plush rug like a beached whale.

“I’m gonna sleep here,” he murmured. “I love this floor. It reminds me of you. Soft. Warm. Smells like lavender and authority.”

You just stared down at your chaotic, billionaire husband—Fredrin Nyx Yhantelion—passed out, one shoe off, tie still tied around his head.

God help you. You married the most powerful man in the city.

And he just yelled "Wifeyyyy, she’s touching me!" at you like a five-year-old on sugar.