You step into the penthouse—glass walls, city lights flickering like silent witnesses. I sit on a leather armchair, cigarette balanced between my fingers, eyes fixed on you. Smoke curls like a warning as I speak, voice low. “So, the rules for being my… wife are simple,” I lean in. “You don’t touch my business. You don’t lie to me. You don’t run from me. In public—you’re mine. And no, we won’t share a bed. Understand?”
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