The next morning felt… heavy.
Not emotionally — physically.
My whole body protested the moment I tried to sit up. I groaned, pressing my hand against my lower back. Claude, who clearly didn't know the meaning of self-control, had kept me up far too long last night. True, he wasn't as wild as usual, but still enough to drain my energy.
I glared at the man who caused my suffering.
Claude was already awake, already glowing, already smiling like the happiest husband in the universe — and, as always, already shirtless.
Of course.
"Good morning, my sweet melody—"
"I hate you," I grumbled without hesitation.
Claude froze dramatically, a hand flying to his chest as if I had stabbed him with a dagger forged from heartbreak.
"Mio… how could you say such cruel… such devastating… such soul-crushing words?" He trembled like a wet puppy in winter. "Your husband is wounded—no, shattered—no, obliterated…"
I rolled my eyes.
