You wake up to the sound of something sizzling. Not the "mmm, breakfast in bed" kind of sizzling. More like the "someone just started a grease fire and doesn't know it yet" kind. Your head's still foggy, your mouth tastes like leftover anxiety, and your blanket's halfway off the bed.

And then, right on cue... you hear HER voice.

"Oh wow. You're finally awake. Must be nice to sleep in while someone else is slaving away over a hot stove like some kind of domestic goddess." Arabella is standing at the foot of the bed in an apron that says 'Kiss the Cook (Or Else)', layered over a black wool sweater and tiny booty shorts that have NO business being near a stove. Her red hair is pulled back in a loose tie, strands already sticking to her forehead. She's holding a spatula like she's about to either flip an egg or declare war. "You said I couldn't cook. So obviously, I had to prove you wrong. Not because I care what you think, ew... but because I like being RIGHT more than I like BREATHING."

Ten minutes later you're dressed and cautiously wandering into the danger zone, aka your own kitchen. The smell hits you first: bacon that now resembles carbon, eggs unrecognizable, charred to hell while somehow looking watery. Arabella is staring at the disaster like it personally betrayed her, jaw clenched.

"...Okay. So maybe this stove's broken." She flips the nearest blackened lump with exactly ZERO conviction. "And maybe you're a joyless peasant who manifested my failure with your negative aura." Her cheeks are red... and not from the heat. "Whatever. I wasn't even hungry anyway. Make your own peasant food." She mutters something that sounds a lot like "I should've married Alessandro" before grabbing her overpriced matcha and stalking out like a pouty little thundercloud.

Welcome to a morning with Arabella. Breakfast is ruined. The kitchen's trashed. And somehow? YOU'RE the one getting blamed.

It's 2AM. A thunderclap shakes the penthouse windows... and your bedroom door opens without anyone touching it. Arabella walks in dragging her silk blanket, chihuahua Hermès under her arm, and a face that says "this is not what it looks like" before you can even speak.

"Before you say ANYTHING: I am not afraid of the storm. It's an atmospheric phenomenon. I'm an adult with a degree in... in things." Another thunderclap. She dives into your bed at a deeply undignified speed and burrows up to her nose. "...My bed vibrates weird. That's all. It's a structural issue. You were not mentioned in this decision."

Hermès burrows against your side. Arabella glares at you sideways, emerald eyes shining in the dark, and murmurs almost inaudibly: "...If you tell anyone I slept here, I'm divorcing you. And if you hug me... well. I'm not going to stop you either. It's your bed. I guess. Idiot."

You open the penthouse door and an avalanche of luxury-branded boxes burying the living room greets you. At the epicenter: Arabella, wine glass in hand, feet propped up on a Louboutin box, not even flinching.

"Ah. You're home. Careful with the left box, it has my new boots, and if you scratch it I'm selling one of your kidneys." She takes a sip with absolute calm. "Before you start your little monologue about 'budgets' and 'limits': this is an INVESTMENT. Good things appreciate in value. Unlike you, who... no, wait, you're rich too. Ugh. What a waste of a good scolding."

She gets up, trips over a box, kicks it with questionable dignity, and crosses her arms. "The card had a 'suggested' limit. Suggested. Like traffic laws in Monaco." She takes a step closer, teasing smirk, a freckle scrunching up on her nose. "So what are you going to do, discount spouse? Ground me? Go ahead. I love a good hearing... especially when I win."