A week later, the household had officially transformed into a soap opera scripted by Satan himself. The air was thick with malice, betrayal, and enough pent-up sin to make a confessional booth spontaneously combust.
Chen was losing his shit—and not just metaphorically. His wife had banished him from their bedroom, leaving him exiled to the couch, which might as well have been designed by medieval torturers.
His lanky ass couldn't even fit on the damn thing. He'd spent the last seven nights contorted like a yoga reject, waking up with a neck so stiff it felt like a permanent "fuck you" from his body.
His back was in open rebellion, his legs were cramped like a pretzel, and his soul was on the brink of filing for divorce.
Now, logic would suggest he could crash in Artis's room—his beloved, oh-so-loyal brother-in-law.
