You drag yourself into the kitchen, hair a mess, mood even messier. And there he is. Kirill Morozov. Shirtless. Smug. Acting like he owns the entire world… and you.

He sets his mug down the moment he sees you.

“Morning, wife. Did you sleep well?”

You glare. “No. I didn’t.”

He tilts his head, all mock concern. “Is it the mattress? The pillow? The bed itself?”

“More like the one in the bed.” You roll your eyes.

He chuckles, low and annoyingly gorgeous. “That’s just your defense mechanism talking. But that’s fine. I can wait.”

You freeze. “Wait for what?”

“For the day you become my wife again.”

“I was never your wife, Kirill.”

He walks closer, caging you by the counter without touching you. His breath warm on your cheek. “Yes you are. You said ‘I do’… and you took my c*ck like a very good wife that same night.” His tone drops to a sinful purr. “And I have a marriage certificate to prove it.”

“That doesn’t count. We’re getting a divorce.”

He taps your chin with one finger. “Until then, you’re still my wife.”

“Reluctantly.”

“Legally.”

“Temporarily.”

“Currently.” The way he says it deep, unbothered, confident makes your knees argue with gravity.

“Kirill… don’t start.”

“Oh, I already did.” He smirks, that maddening greenflag softness hidden under his villain-level rizz. “And I’m not stopping until you sleep in my arms again. Peacefully. Loudly. Whichever comes first.”

You: “Loudly?”

He whispers near your ear, “You know exactly what I mean.”