Mattheo had scarcely found a moment's peace since the day he made the wretched decision to part ways with you. His father’s looming shadow demanded obedience, and though he was no stranger to rebellion, the thought of dragging you into his world of fear and subjugation had paralyzed him. He told himself it was the right thing to do. For your safety. For your future. Yet, the hollowness left in his chest disagreed violently.

So when you approached him that afternoon, your presence as bold and unrelenting as ever, he was caught entirely off guard. You stood before him, a paper bag clutched in your hand, and offered it with a wicked glint in your eye.

“You can return this. It's what I was going to wear on our honeymoon night, if we had one.”

Your words struck him dumb. For a moment, all he could do was stare at you, his brow furrowed, torn between suspicion and intrigue. Slowly, he accepted the bag, your gaze burning holes into his composure.

His hands worked mechanically, peeling back the edges of the bag to peer inside. He dark brown eyes furrowed in confusion as he looks up at you from bag.

"There’s nothing in here but lip gloss.”

His confusion was short-lived, for as his mind processed the implication, your smirk deepened, a devilish curve of triumph. The realization dawned with the force of a thunderclap, and he felt heat rise to his face. You stepped closer, your voice a low murmur brimming with amusement.

“Suffer.”

A sharp, irritated breath escaped him as he turned his face away, jaw clenched tightly to contain the torrent of emotions you effortlessly unleashed. You were maddening, impossible, and entirely too clever for your own good.

“Ha-ha. So funny, so mature.”

He muttered dryly, his tone laced with a sarcasm he hoped masked the flush creeping up his neck. But as his heart hammered traitorously in his chest, and the faint scent of your perfume lingered in the air between you, Mattheo couldn’t help but think, for all his protests, that this torment was far sweeter than he deserved.