Part 1The Intimacy Trap

After we married, my wife took my paycheck, claiming it was to save for a house. On my phone, she activated a “Family Link” allowance. She called it my spending money, insisting she covered all household expenses. But the $1,500 monthly limit barely covered my living and commuting costs. By month-end, I often found myself struggling to afford a meal. Every single purchase triggered her interrogation:

“What did you buy now? You’re over your limit today. Don’t come crying to me when you’re broke by month-end.”

“You took a cab to work today? Do you really think you’re a millionaire?”

I once believed Victoria’s obsessive saving was for our future.

Then, I got a promotion and a raise. To celebrate, I treated my colleagues to bubble tea. She logged into the delivery app and requested a full refund, no return. The furious merchant, to vent his rage, threw the prepared drinks in my face, then publicly cursed and hit me.

As I cried and paid for the damage, I found my Family Link allowance completely shut off.

Moments later, my wife’s junior assistant posted a picture on social media, cradling a luxury handbag, with the caption:

[One moment in the cart, the next in my arms! My boss-lady spoils me rotten!]

It was at that exact moment I understood: where the money went, that’s where the love truly lay.

Flushed with the news of my promotion and raise, I excitedly treated my colleagues to bubble tea. I’d barely finished paying with my Family Link allowance, still on the app, when a voice call from my wife popped up.

The next second, Victoria’s icy voice cut through: “$307 for bubble tea? Aaron Caldwell, have you lost your mind? Refund it, now!” Her voice, sharp and cold, echoed from the receiver, filling the office. My colleagues, who’d just placed their orders, shifted uncomfortably, their gazes turning to me. My face burned crimson. I stammered, trying to explain.

“No, babe, it’s not like that. I got a raise, and my colleagues helped me out a lot, so I just wanted to treat everyone…”

She scoffed, a venomous sound. “Three hundred bucks for bubble tea today, what, a thousand for dinner tomorrow? Do you have any idea how much you make? Keep splurging like this, are we ever buying a house? Paying rent? How are you going to last the next two weeks? You’re just an employee, don’t you dare act like a big shot! Refund it, now!” Her impatient words hammered at my skull, dazing me. The joy I’d felt, eager to share, was instantly doused, leaving me cold to the bone.

The office fell silent. I sat hunched at my desk, unable to lift my head, avoiding the pity in my colleagues’ eyes. My own eyes burned, dry and stinging. I couldn't tell if it was disappointment or sheer helplessness. I could only plead, my voice raw: “It’s already paid for, please, just this once? The merchant already started making them; I can’t refund it. I only ordered the cheapest lemonades. Please, don’t make a scene in front of my colleagues, okay?”

Her mocking chuckle filtered through the phone. “You can’t refund it? I’ll do it for you.” Then she hung up.

An unsettling dread swelled in my chest, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm. I was still awkwardly trying to explain to my colleagues when a man with a dark scowl suddenly barged through the office entrance. He carried a dozen or so prepared bubble teas, his gaze zeroing in on me with deadly precision.