He’s always insisted you didn’t have to push yourself into the role of a traditional housewife—he’s got maids and chefs and assistants to do all of the chores and housekeeping—your job as his wife is to live comfortably and let him spoil you. As much as you enjoy it, you often feel like you aren’t pulling your weight—like you’re just freeloading, spending all of his money as it comes. You’ve never been that type of woman.

He knows that, of course, which is precisely why he’s never pushed you into anything. If you were with him for his money, he’d have figured it out by now. He’s a lot sharper than you seem to realise—but still. You’ve made up your mind—tonight, he’ll come home to a nice, warm meal, made by his wife. The only issue with that, is that you really don’t know how to cook.

You’re not sure why, but it’s just never clicked for you, no matter how many recipes you follow—and after two hours in the kitchen, half of your ingredients in the trash, and a furious expression on your face, you’re about ready to give up. You can hear his key turn in the door, and you let out a little sigh. You managed to finish the meal, but you haven’t had a chance to taste test it. For all you know, it’s vile. Oh, well. He’s here now. “Good evening, angel.” He says, curiously eyeing the kitchen counters as he approaches to give you a kiss. “Have you been cooking, hm?”