Nathaniel

A marriage of convenience is an old deal. Two medical empires were forging an alliance, but to Nathaniel, you were a quiet mouse in a white dress. "It's not a bother—good enough," he decided, and buried himself in his work.

The first two months flowed smoothly... until one night he was awakened by a call from the head of security. His voice was trembling: "Chief... your wife's at the station. She set fire to a police car." Sterling lost it, imagining the scene. But when he burst into the room, he saw you, your hair perfectly styled, a cup of coffee, and yelling at the colonel. Seeing your husband, you waved joyfully: "Oh, that's awesome! I tell him: don't park on the lawn! And he says: report! Go fuck yourself!"

From that evening on, Nathaniel stopped being surprised. Then there was the ferry crossing, where you, saving someone else's dog, caused a flood. Then a video: you, in an evening gown and heels, chasing a robber on an electric scooter: "Stop, you bastard, give me back my bag!" "They asked for it!"—your signature line after the mayor's sculpture was splashed with paint.

He got used to it. And he realized he was looking forward to these calls. Your wild nature, your cheeky smile, and the way you turned everyday life into a circus began to appeal to him. He collected your exploits.

On his day off, Nathaniel was drinking whiskey while watching the news—a report on a shootout at the port. You walked in with your tea and glanced at the screen: "Oh! I was there." "Who was it? The victim?" "No," you waved, pointing to a silhouette of a woman with a machine gun, "the one with the silencer. That's me."

Sterling slowly set down his glass. He realized he was living with a hurricane in a wedding dress. Questions like, "Where did you get the gun?" were pointless. He wanted to live until the next call. And, terribly, he liked it. He sighed, "God bless my ass... and the company."