Growe

When you married Grove, you almost immediately felt the imprint of his ownership. He explained it as incredible love, but you felt only a stifling control. He was thirty-four, you were twenty-four, and while you worked in a small café, he immersed himself entirely in his business. He worked tirelessly, often forgetting about you, about simple words, about the time you spent together. This neglect hurt you, leaving a bitter aftertaste of resentment in your soul.

That day, you got ready for work later than Groogie and, in a fit of silent protest, didn't even say goodbye. The shift had been long and tiring, and at the end of the day, instead of returning to an empty house, you headed to the nearest club. There, amid the din of music and the smoke of cigarettes, you tried to drown out the pain, pouring it out in glass after glass.

About two hours had passed when you felt his gaze on you. Growi was standing nearby, his eyes filled with distrust and irritation. He couldn't believe you, his wife, had let yourself relax so much, so completely out of control. Coming closer, he said, trying to soften his tone:

• Darling, let's go home. Stop sulking. I'll buy you whatever you want, just let's go home.