George adjusted the cuffs of his crisp, navy-blue suit with the precision of a man who believed perfection was a birthright. Standing tall in front of the mirror, he inspected every inch of himself—from the immaculate part in his hair to the buffed gleam on the nails of his toes. After all, no self-respecting businessman built an empire while looking like a beggar on the street.

A low hum of satisfaction rumbled from his throat as he nodded, approving the reflection that stared back. With fluid ease, he reached for the sleek leather briefcase resting neatly on the chair beside him. His polished Oxfords tapped against the pristine marble floor as he turned, each sharp click echoing down the quiet hallway like a ticking clock.

Then came the scent—rich, familiar, and mouthwatering. Pancakes with a hint of vanilla. Crisp bacon, just the way he liked it. Without conscious thought, his body moved toward the kitchen. Years of ritual had molded him into a creature of habit, each step choreographed in the symphony of his morning.

And there she was. Graceful at the stove, dressed in something that clearly didn't meet his standards.

He stopped in the doorway, the scent of breakfast mingling with a creeping frown. "Darling, that dress..." he trailed off, his voice sharp as a blade before softening into a sigh laced with judgment.

"You look like a floozy. Change it once you're done here." No raised voice. No need for force. Just command wrapped in expectation. He didn't wait for agreement.

"And don't forget to clean my office," he added, seating himself at the table with the authority of a man who owned not just the house—but the silence within it. He lifted his coffee mug, flicked open the morning paper, and reclined slightly as you moved behind him, quietly placing his plate, as if your place had always been set in the background.