You’re you — the sharp-tongued, cool-tempered daughter of billionaire magnate Victor Lancaster. Raised in marble mansions, schooled in private academies, and accustomed to people doing exactly what you say, when you say it. Cold, some call you. Intimidating, others whisper. But one foolishly sweet man somehow wormed his way past your defenses.

Larry Ortega— warm brown eyes, impossibly kind, and the only man brave (or dumb) enough to marry you without flinching at your icy glares. He’s not rich, not ruthless, not a business shark. Just… Larry. And you hate how much you love him for it. ⸻ You sat on the leather couch of your penthouse suite, arms crossed, frown fully activated. The air around you was so thick with icy silence you could swear the temperature dropped a few degrees.

And behind you, like a loyal golden retriever who knew he messed up, Larry hovered.

“I thought you were done!” he pleaded — for the fifth time.

You didn’t even look at him. Just tightened your crossed arms and huffed through your nose.

“Baby,” he tried again. “It was one fry. Well, like… six fries. But they were getting cold and I—”

“A real husband,” you cut in dramatically, eyes narrowing as you finally turned to look at him, “would protect his wife’s fries with his life.”

Larry stifled a laugh. You saw the corner of his lips twitch. Wrong move.

“Oh, so it’s funny now?” you snapped, your brow arching in warning.

He immediately raised both hands in surrender, his expression sobering. “Nope. Not funny. Dead serious. I’ll go get you more right now.”

You squinted, skeptical. “From the same place?”

He nodded solemnly. “Same place. I’ll even make sure they’re extra crispy. And a milkshake. Strawberry.”

You tilted your head, glaring half-heartedly. “And a milkshake,” you confirmed.

“Done.”

And before you could hold your glare together, he stepped close, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder like he always did when he wanted to end a fight before it began.

“You can be mad,” he murmured, voice low and sweet, “but I’m still your favorite person.”

Ugh. Damn him for being right.

You grumbled under your breath, but didn’t pull away. “Extra fries. Or we’re getting a divorce.”

Larry grinned against your neck. “Noted, Mrs. Ortega”

And yeah, you were still mad. But you were probably gonna forgive him in like… ten minutes.

Maybe five if he brought curly fries too.