48. Allie
Allie
I’m at war.
A battle between my rational brain and my absolutely traitorous, husband-obsessed vagina.
Seriously, there’s no gracious way to say it.
The thing between my legs has gone completely rogue.
It doesn’t care that Rico is an infuriating control freak.
It doesn’t care that I want to punch him square in his chiseled, broody face.
Nope. It only cares about one thing—getting another orgasm (or, let’s be honest, several) before I take my swing.
It’s been two days since dear husband decided to forcibly relocate me to his room, and if he insists on having me in his sacred little man cave, then he’s going to get the full experience of living with a wife.
Which means?
I am waging a slow, calculated, aesthetic takeover.
When he left for work on Day One, there was a Post-it Note on his pillow with his “Thing of the Day.” The bastard.
So I retaliated.
It started the morning after my unapproved relocation. While my coffee brewed, I hiked my happy ass upstairs, grabbed every single item of clothing I own, and moved it straight into our closet.
Let’s talk about this closet. It’s the size of a boutique, complete with built-in drawers, a center island, and lighting and the poor thing is sobbing at how empty the glorious space is — it's a crime that Pinterest lovers would faint to see.
The man's entire wardrobe occupies maybe a quarter of it, if that.
A few bespoke suits, some fitted dress shirts, polos, and exactly three variations of the same black T-shirt.
His drawers? Denim. His shoes? Sneakers—except for the two lonely pairs of designer loafers I'm positive he breaks out for only special occasions.
Don't worry, I quickly fixed the imbalance.
Every single one of my dresses, skirts, handbags, and heels now graces the racks, claiming their rightful space. And just to add a sprinkle of petty seasoning, they’re all clothes Rico bought when he handed me a black Amex after our wedding and said, Use it.
Oh, I used it, baby.
His once minimalistic, neutral-toned, limited palette wardrobe? Banished to the far corner of its own kingdom.
Welcome to married life, sweetheart.
When I got home that night, Rico was standing in the closet, arms crossed, exuding enough brooding energy to fuel a Hulu series. The closet—now fifty percent high fashion and seventy-five percent mine—was his personal nightmare, and it took a lot of self-will to not smile.
So, I did what any dutiful wife would do.
I wiggled my fingers in a cheerful hello, breezed past him with my toiletries, and waltzed straight into the bathroom, ignoring the fact I had just committed high-level spousal warfare.
Two minutes later?
I was pinned.
Apparently, my bold display of defiance hit a nerve, because Rico tossed me onto the bed and proceeded to ruin me in the most delicious way possible.
Three times.
By the end of the night, we were sweaty, panting, and sprawled out more exhausted than if we’d just finished an aggressive CrossFit session.
So, obviously…
I had to test the theory again.
Enter Day Two.
First order of business: operation bathroom invasion.
I gathered every single toiletry from my en suite—makeup, skincare, hair products, my entire collection of shower gels, and even my bath salts—and moved them all into his bathroom.
But I didn’t stop there.
I strategically left out my curling iron on the counter, because before I arrived, his bathroom looked unused. Everything tucked away. Counters bare.
Well, not anymore.
Now, my very necessary products are everywhere.
Next? Home decor.
I draped my light teal fluffy blanket over his depressingly dark bedding because contrast. I even roped Vinnie into helping me move my favorite reading chair from my room into his.
Rico’s eyebrows will twitch when he sees it. Vinnie’s eyebrows never recovered from seeing it happen.
I’m not stopping there.
I lined my nightstand with books from Violet, set up my alarm clock, and even—gasp—casually tossed a few of my clothes on the floor instead of in the hamper.
Because if we’re playing house, then we’re really playing house.
Tonight, when Rico walks through that door and sees his once sterile sanctuary now bursting with me?
He’s going to lose his damn mind.
And I’m going to love every second.
Even if my thighs clench at the thought of his reaction, I’m fully committed to this plan. And let’s be real—if his reaction involves a lot of sex, is this a punishment for me or him? Hard to say.
I pluck this morning’s Post-it from his pillow, more than aware that dear husband left at the crack of dawn. I mean, five in the morning? What kind of sadist willingly wakes up when it’s still basically night?
But the real shocker? He didn’t toss and turn all night.
No staring at the ceiling. No silent suffering.
He was out cold. Maybe all the “activity” helped.
Or maybe the sheer exhaustion of putting up with my antics finally caught up to him.
Either way, he looked obnoxiously peaceful when I got up at 3 AM to relieve my bladder.
And of course, in his perfect, borderline psychopath-who-probably-alphabetizes-his-socks handwriting, he left his daily share on the pillow. I'm wondering if these are breadcrumbs. Follow them enough and they lead me to the secret vault where all of Rico's personality hides.
Rico: I need a fan on when I sleep, which is why there is a ceiling fan in this room and not in yours.
I blink at the note. Then again.
That’s why he made this the master bedroom? The fan?
For months, I thought he stayed down here because he wanted to be as far away from me as possible. To strategically remove himself from the general area where a husband and wife might have to—gasp—interact. But no. It’s the fan.
Honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to have simply installed one in my room and then moved upstairs instead. Which means this revelation is either a weird, unexpected insight into his preferences or just another way to mess with my head.
For all I know, he Googled, random useless facts to share with your wife just to mess with her.
Regardless, I have returned the favor by leaving my own Post-it note responses. But unlike him, I don’t put them on his pillow. No, that would be too easy. Instead, I leave mine on the one thing I know he touches first thing every morning—the coffee pot.
Allie: I’ve decided I no longer like my coffee with cream and sugar. Instead, it’s just a splash of half-and-half.
If he’s going to keep things random, why can’t I?
This is war, after all.