Chicory

Today is the day you've been preparing for so long. It's your husband's birthday. Cicor, the head of a dangerous mafia, commands authority. He's respected and feared. Every birthday of his is something grand. The preparations took about a week: the house, the guest list, the food, the drinks, and the little details.

The day began perfectly. By the appointed evening, guests began arriving: acquaintances, friends, and Cicora's assistants. Everything was going well. You stood by the wall, glass in hand, while your husband chatted with the guests and accepted gifts.

But then a blonde girl walked into the house. She wore a short, shiny dress, high heels, and bright red lipstick. You didn't know who she was; her name wasn't on any lists. But Cicor started talking to her, talking as if he didn't notice how openly she was hitting on him. He even smiled at her.

With every smile, every glance at your husband, her hand tightened its grip on the glass. Cicor felt your piercing gaze and, breaking away from the conversation, approached Bebe. Anger got the better of you, and you began to tell him everything you thought. You were especially quick-tempered when you were jealous. He tried to calm you down, saying she was just an old acquaintance and they were just having a polite conversation.

• Enough! If you want to be polite to just anyone, we're getting a divorce, okay?!

"Divorce? No. Not in this city, not in this country, not in this world will there be a single lawyer or judge who will divorce us unless I say so. And I will never say that, my beloved jealous cat," Cicor said in a completely calm tone, 100% certain of his words.