Rogan dressed in a sharp black suit, his aura commanding attention without even trying. He looked dangerously handsome, one of those men you could fall in love with all over again just by watching him walk.
As he moved past me, I paused for a second. This man… he's effortlessly captivating.
I headed upstairs to touch up my makeup. But when I stood before the mirror, I realized I didn't need to change a thing. Everything I wore was perfect—elegant, modest, and stylish. Dressing up has never been new to me. Fashion has always been a part of who I am, it's how I speak when words fail. So I didn't change. Not even a single accessory. Let him be bitter. I won't let him break my light.
Soon, we both left the house, me in my car, him in his. My driver was already waiting, and I wasn't about to send him away just to ride with a man who's trying to control my every move.
When we arrived at my salon, my staff quickly rushed out to welcome me. My male assistant took my bag as usual. My salon isn't just any regular place—it's one of the biggest unisex beauty hubs in the city. From pedicures and manicures to body services, it has it all.
And everyone knew Rogan. Not just because he was my husband, but because of who he was. The name Rogan Marsden carried weight. Wealth. Power. Presence.
When he stepped into the salon, every girl there turned into a blushing mess.
"Oh my God, is that really him?"
"That's Rogan? Mali's husband?"
"I can't believe I'm seeing him in person!"
The air buzzed with excitement, and I could feel all eyes watching as I calmly directed Rogan to the VIP lounge, telling him I needed to attend to my special client.
While I was handling her appointment, I received a call from one of my male regulars. He was already outside, asking for his usual pedicure session—the one I always did personally.
The moment he walked in, Rogan's mood shifted. My client was tall, confident, and around the same age as him. I noticed the way Rogan sized him up with narrowed eyes.
As I walked past, I told Rogan, "I'll be doing my client's pedicure in the private room. I'll be back shortly."
He stood up abruptly.
"Private room? For what?" he snapped. "You're not doing any man's pedicure in any private room. What's that supposed to mean? You are my wife now. It's not allowed. Maybe before—yes. But now? Never."
I stopped mid-step and looked at him.
"This is my place of work. My business. The one I built from scratch. You said you would let me work if I agreed to let you follow, so don't act like we didn't discuss this."
"You never said anything about being alone in private with a man!" he barked. "That's not part of any agreement. I'm not allowing it. End of discussion."
His voice cut through the room like a sharp blade. Even though the clients couldn't hear exactly what he said, they could see the tension between us.
This was my place. My kingdom. And yet I felt powerless in front of my own throne.
I sighed and turned to my client. "I'm sorry, but I won't be able to attend to you personally today. One of my team will take good care of you, I promise."
He smiled, understanding. "It's okay. I get it."
I gave him a nod, swallowing my pride. Then I turned around and walked back to Rogan, my heels clicking against the floor like quiet thunder.
In my head, I was screaming. This is just the beginning of madness.
This isn't love. This is a cage disguised in a wedding ring.
I don't really have close friends. Not the deep, soul-bond kind of friendship people talk about. But because I own a salon, I've found myself surrounded by women, clients, coworkers, and a few familiar faces I talk and laugh with. Not too deep, but enough to call them friends.
Later that day, three of my friends dropped by my shop unexpectedly.
"Look at our newly wedded bride!" one of them teased, laughing as they hugged me.
"How's married life?" another added with a playful nudge.
We were still joking around when one of them turned slightly, eyes widening. "Wait—" she gasped. "Is that your husband? That's Rogan?
The room shifted. Two of them walked over to where Rogan was seated, giggling and trying to make conversation.
"Oh my goodness, he's so cute in person."
"He's so fine, Mali, how did you even land this one?"
I glanced over at him. Rogan didn't smile. He stood up and walked to another side of the salon, distancing himself from the group. Then he came straight to me, leaned in, and whispered,
"Hey babe, we need to leave. Soon."
I was caught off guard. Babe? Since when did I become a babe?
But I smiled anyway. "Okay, baby." I played along, pretending nothing was off, because that's what I've learned to do—match his mood and keep the peace.
Later, when the day finally slowed down, I decided to do something small for myself. I picked out a few clothes—just something I liked, with my own money. I've always worked for what I have.
But when we got to the counter, Rogan pulled out his card.
"I'll pay," he said.
"Oh… thank you," I replied.
He gave a cold smile. "You're married to me. I'll pay. And when I need you to pay your debt, you will."
I froze for a second but nodded. "Okay."
Because I didn't want another argument, any disagreement with Rogan is like shouting into a storm.
We got into the car after shopping, and just as I thought the day was finally settling, he turned to me and said.
"You really need to tell your friends to stop smiling at people outside. Your friends? They're ugly. Honestly, how can you be ugly and still have ugly friends? That's a double disaster. Don't uglies usually try to upgrade their circle? You're all the same."
His words hit harder than a slap.
I stared out the window. My chest ached, but my mouth stayed shut.
Okay, Fine. I will
Because with Rogan, defending yourself is a battle you can't win.
If I'm ugly, then so be it.
If my friends are too, that's fine too.
At the end of the day, no matter what I do, Rogan will never appreciate anything.
Not me.
Not my work.
Not the people who care about me.
But what hurts the most… is that I'm starting to believe him.