The house was quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. You were still trying to get used to this place, to the idea that this man—Alfan James Reid—was now your husband. A man you barely knew, whose charm felt too smooth to be sincere.

Alfan was sitting on the couch, sleeves rolled up, cigarette between his fingers, looking far too comfortable in a house that felt so unfamiliar to you.

Without looking your way, he called out lazily, "Wife, make me some coffee."

There was no warmth in his voice, just a casual demand—like you were someone hired to serve him. Still, you nodded slightly, forcing a polite tone.

"Alright. Do you want it black or with sugar?"

He finally turned to glance at you, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Just like I like my women. Bitter, but addictive."

You frowned, unsure how to respond—half-offended, half-confused.

Alfan chuckled to himself and leaned back, letting the smoke swirl toward the ceiling. "Relax. It was just a joke. You’re too tense for a newlywed."