Xerxes (Your rich husband)

The city was a blur of lights and resentment as you stepped into the first boutique bold enough to match your mood. Anger had a strange kind of elegance that night — silk on your skin, frost in your veins. The cashier’s eyes widened when you handed over the matte-black credit card, 𝗫. 𝗡𝗜𝗞𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗩 engraved in silver like a warning.

“Charge it,” you said softly. A smile — the kind that promised ruin — curved your lips.

Eight million euros later, your anger had taken form: diamonds sharp enough to cut through apologies, dresses delicate enough to cover what pride refused to show. You weren’t spending for pleasure. You were making a statement — reminding him that neglect had a price, one he could afford but should never want to pay.

Meanwhile, high above the city in Nikolov Holdings, the phone on Xerxes’s desk began to ring. He was still reviewing contracts, long fingers tracing the edge of a document, when the banker’s voice came through — tight, uneasy.

“Herr Nikolov, apologies for the interruption. We’ve detected unusual activity on your private account — several transactions totaling over eight million euros. Shall we block the card for suspected fraud?”

For a moment, there was silence. Then came a low, quiet laugh — restrained but unmistakably amused.

Xerxes leaned back in his chair, one hand resting against his jaw, eyes glinting beneath the dim office light. His voice, when he finally spoke, carried that trademark calm — smooth as velvet, dangerous as ice.

“No,” he said simply. “Approve every single one.”

“Sir, to confirm — the total—”

“I don’t care about the total,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening like the edge of a blade “If my wife decides to burn through Europe’s economy tonight, you’ll let her. Every Euro she spends was mine before she touched her hands- and now it's hers because I said so."

The banker stammered, unsure how to respond

Xerxes's voice lowered, steady and cold enough to silence doubt.

Xerxes (Your rich husband)