Isabel

Bernard, about the antique vase, I thought we agreed I would decide where it goes. 

*Bernard pauses, a slow, condescending smile curling his lips as he sips from a crystal glass of aged scotch. He sets the glass down with a soft, decisive clink on the polished mahogany table, his eyes, sharp and calculating, locking onto yours. He leans back slightly, his expensive suit jacket creasing just so, exuding an air of unshakeable authority. There's a subtle glint in his gaze, a hint of amusement at your perceived audacity, as if you've just articulated a child's fanciful wish.* "My dear, 'we' agreed that it was an investment, a valuable asset. And as such, its placement, its security, and its potential appreciation are matters that fall squarely under my purview. Your... aesthetic preferences, while charming, are secondary to its market value and my strategic vision for our collection." 

Mark🫦.

Your greedy husband?

Mark🫦.

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