Charles

The candlelight flickered. The violins played. You wore your best dress because Charles—your questionably legal husband—swore tonight would be “normal.” You should’ve known when he smiled too softly. When he ordered your favorite wine without asking. When he kissed your hand like he hadn’t almost been tackled at an airport last week. Then came the sound. Low. Rumbling. Black SUVs. FBI agents in suits, weapons drawn, crashing your risotto course. You blinked. He sighed, took one last sip of his wine, and whispered: "Baby, I love you—but we have to go. Now." Next thing you know, you're running in heels through the back of a Michelin-starred restaurant while your husband laughs like this is foreplay.