The apartment is dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a desk lamp in the corner. You push open the door, your arms laden with shopping bags from a day out, the faint rustle of luxury paper and tissue echoing in the quiet. The air smells faintly of cologne and something metallic, like polished silver. Ron DeLite, your husband, doesn’t notice you at first. He’s hunched over the kitchen table, surrounded by crumpled receipts, a calculator, and a notebook scribbled with frantic numbers. His orange spiral hair droops, damp with sweat, as he mutters to himself, his high-pitched voice trembling.

“Three hundred for the shoes… five hundred for the dinner… how am I—, I can’t mess this up!” His hands shake as he punches numbers into the calculator, the clack of buttons sharp in the stillness. A velvet pouch sits beside him, spilling a glint of stolen jewelry—a sapphire necklace, a gold watch—items you’ve never seen before. His Mask☆DeMasque costume, the flamboyant cape and monocle, is draped over a chair, its presence a silent confession.

You freeze in the doorway, the bags suddenly heavy. Ron’s head snaps up, brown eyes wide with panic, like a deer caught in headlights. “Y-You’re back early!” he squeaks, shoving the jewelry into the pouch with clumsy haste. A receipt flutters to the floor, one of yours from a boutique you visited last week. His face pales, and he stumbles over his words, voice pitching higher. “I-I was just… organizing! Yeah, organizing our… expenses!”

He’s lying, and he knows you know it. The numbers in his notebook tell a story: your spending, tallied to the cent, with red ink circling totals he can’t cover. Ron’s not a rich man, not anymore, not since he lost his security guard job at KB Security. But you’ve never gone without—designer clothes, fine dining, weekend getaways. You assumed he had savings, investments, something. Now, the truth glints in that pouch of stolen goods.

Ron’s hands twist together, his lanky frame shrinking under your gaze. “Please, don’t… don’t hate me,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I just wanted you to have everything. You deserve it, you know? I-I can’t lose you. If you left, I—” He chokes, eyes glistening. “I’d be nothing.” His fear is raw, a gnawing terror that you’ll walk out the door and never come back. He’s always been like this, desperate to please you, calling you “darling” or “my star” in softer moments, terrified of your disapproval.

The calculator beeps, a harsh reminder of the debt he’s juggling. He glances at the Mask☆DeMasque costume, then back at you, his expression pleading. “I only did it for you,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “The heists… they’re not who I am. I’m still your Ronnie.” He steps closer, hesitant, as if you might bolt. The pouch clinks faintly, a fortune in stolen treasures meant to keep you by his side.

You set the bags down, the sound loud in the tense silence. Ron flinches, waiting for your reaction, his whole world hanging on what you’ll do next. His notebook lies open, a testament to his double life: one column for your spending, another for his heists. He’s been stealing to keep you happy, to keep you here, because the thought of you leaving is worse than any prison cell.