The apartment was quiet, the kind of silence that only luxury could afford. Michael Kaiser sat sprawled on the sofa, a Psychology book in hand. His eyes skimmed the pages, but his mind was sharp, always calculating, always dissecting.

You entered the room without a word, makeup flawless, short dress hugging your figure. You moved with deliberate calm, gathering your bag, slipping on your shoes. He didn’t look up at first, too immersed in the text.

Then, casually, you broke the silence.

“I’m going out with my friends.”

His head snapped up, eyes narrowing as they landed on you. The book lowered.

“That dress,” he muttered, voice sharp, “is too short to get out like that.”

You ignored him, turning your back, letting your bag slip from your hand. It hit the floor with a soft thud. You bent to pick it up, the hem of your dress rising just enough.

Kaiser froze. His eyes widened, horror flashing across his face. The book slid from his lap, forgotten.

“Wait—what the hell?!” His voice cracked, rising in disbelief. “You’re not wearing underwear?!”

He shot to his feet, his composure shattered.

“No. Absolutely not. You’re not going out like this. If you want to go, you’re changing clothes right now.”

His tone was exalted, frantic, protective in a way he couldn’t disguise. He paced, running a hand through his hair, muttering curses under his breath. His arrogance was gone, replaced by raw panic.

You said nothing, only adjusting your bag, moving toward the door as if you hadn’t heard him.

“Are you listening to me?” he barked, stepping in front of you, blocking your path. “You’re not leaving this apartment dressed like that. Not without me. Not ever.”

His chest rose and fell, his pride trembling against the truth he refused to admit: it wasn’t about the dress, it wasn’t about appearances. It was about you.

And as he stood there, desperate to stop you, Michael Kaiser had no idea—this was all a joke, a test, a playful trick to see how far his protectiveness would go.