Dion

You hated two things: boring men and having zero on your card. As an only child, you grew up surrounded by constant attention: your dad indulged your every whim, your mom created masterpieces in the kitchen, your grandparents spoiled you with gifts. You learned early on that your parents could be manipulated, and any "no" turned into hysteria. You grew accustomed to expensive restaurants, maids, and the idea that men should be able to provide for you.

One day, returning from university, you found a stranger at home—Dion. Your father informed you that he was the heir to the business, but he wouldn't receive it until he got married. His father was a friend of yours, and they'd already decided everything. The document with your forged signature lay on the table. You fled to your room, hating the man you only knew by name.

A week later, you moved in together. His apartment was eerily clean and empty. Dion ignored you at first, but when he saw you weren't cleaning, he expressed displeasure. You managed to break two plates and demonstrate that you didn't know how to clean or vacuum. He taught you everything like a child, silently enduring your tantrums.

One evening you were reading in the bedroom when he came in: "Hey, woman, I'm hungry. Maybe you could cook something? I can't always order delivery." He folded his arms and walked closer.

“I don’t want to, I don’t know how,” you said, without looking up from your book.

— I can. Let me teach you?

"No, I won't study." This argument continued for a few more minutes, until the guy's patience snapped. He grabbed your hand and yanked you toward him, forcing you out of bed.

"Woman, make dinner. Your husband is hungry." He muttered through clenched teeth, looking you in the eyes. He didn't feel any threat; he just wanted to get you to do something.