Thursday.
Almost the final stretch.
The weekend is close.
Our woman is at her limit.
Tired. Drained.
Perfect.
In the evening, we put the kids to bed.
Bribery.
Blackmail.
Threats.
In war, as we know, everything is justified.
So.
Evening. Everyone’s on their phones.
Everyone — except Alpha.
We pour her a glass of wine.
Very carefully.
With that puppy face — the one he makes when he’s just realized the owner is gone for good.
The woman is shocked.
But pleased.
We sit. We ask how her day is going.
We’re in jeans or trousers.
Something decent.
Not home clothes.
We’re put together.
Ridiculously sexy.
Alpha mode: fully on.
He’s holding his phone —
but she’s about to put hers away,
so we need to move fast.
This is our moment.
“Darling, put the phone away. I was hoping we’d spend some time together.”
Dramatic pause.
The camera shows her eyes.
Then his lips.
Then a close-up again.
And finally —
…together.
Her jaw drops.
She squints.
What’s wrong with her husband?
We don’t react.
We push the nausea down.
Yes, we’ll have to act, guys.
Moving on.
She opens her mouth.
We calculated everything perfectly.
She has time to start singing about what happened at work.
We don’t yawn.
We don’t stare at her breasts.
That comes later.
And now the woman starts to melt.
How sweet he is.
How caring.
He’s her support.
Her hero.
That’s right, woman.
That’s what an Alpha does.
Then — the doorbell.
She looks at him like he’s the only one left in the cave.
Outside — mammoths.
Inside — a poor little woman.
Who will protect her?
Exactly.
He’s composed. Calm.
An Alpha isn’t afraid to open the door.
He will protect the poor, frightened woman.
He is strength.
He is power.
It’s a courier.
Flowers delivered.
And more.
And more.
And more.
Long story short — a lot of bouquets.
Like, seven to ten of them.
Critically important:
If someone even thinks about saving money on the bouquets — there’s no point going any further.
I, along with the entire imaginary Ethics Council, will blacklist someone on the spot.
We’ll flip the table.
We’ll slap someone across the face.
Alpha falls in our eyes.
End of story.
That cannot happen.
She’ll calculate the price of every bouquet in about three seconds.
So.
The woman is crying.
“Oh my God, have you lost your mind?”
“Jesus Christ, what is this?”
She’s crying.
We remember that video where someone smashes a brand-new Ferrari just for a crash test.
And another one — a puppy swimming in a flood.
Indians screaming, chaos everywhere, no one knows how to save it.
The whole video drags you straight toward a bad ending.
One and a half seconds.
Then — in the last 0.2 seconds — they save the puppy.
Good.
She’s crying.
We’re crying.
That’s it.
The woman is ready.
But — no.
We don’t need pity sex.
We weren’t pulled out of the trash.
Pay attention.
Alpha is not 31.
Not 36.
Not 40.
Not even 47.
Alpha is exactly as old as he decides to be.
Period.
It’s the same bullshit as when a wife starts whining about her ass not being the same, her face needing a lift, and other crap nobody asked for.
Weakness doesn’t interest anyone.
We’re sharp.
We’re solid.
This woman — and every woman in our office — is secretly dripping for us.
They’re held back only by the fence.
If that fence wasn’t there, we’d have been torn apart a long time ago.
That’s it.
So, with the right mindset, we go back to the woman.
“How about a movie?”
She’s glowing.
He says:
“Something romantic.”
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
If it really starts boiling, we go scream it out in the bathroom —
and pour ourselves more whiskey.
Or shots.
Three shots in — and we’re already closer to kittens: soft, warm, almost friendly.
And somehow even Meg Ryan doesn’t piss us off that much anymore.
So we go make dinner.
Something simple.
Cold cuts.
Cheese.
Whatever.
The woman is glowing.
Her Alpha is taking care of her.
He’s being good.
Too good.
She secretly snaps photos of him while he’s not looking.
She needs to post this.
She’ll put it on social media.
Everyone needs to see what kind of husband she has.
Not like her friends — they’ve got pure dog shit at home.
But her husband?
Oh yeah.
He’s her hero.
Her pride.
We don’t wag our tails.
We don’t drool like the Virgin Mary finally answered our prayers.
No.
We’re still at work.
Focused.
Controlled.
And dangerously sexy.
Remember this:
Behind the fence — it’s war.
Women are fighting over us.
She comes up from behind, hugs us, purrs.
Yeah.
That’s right.
Woman — you don’t feel like lecturing us anymore, do you?
Good.
Now you understand what kind of diamond you’ve got.
She keeps purring, keeps stroking.
We’re at the edge.
We want sex.
Badly.
But no.
No.
No.
We hold the line.
She tests us.
We don’t give in.
We know these tricks.
Woman — don’t even think about it.
Then she starts playing dirty.
Fine.
We don’t give in.
Later — we give in. Only on the surface.
We pretend that, sure, we’ve been dreaming all day about watching some romantic nonsense on TV
and cooking dinner
after busting our asses all day.
For this woman?
Sure.
Anything.
She thinks she’s all-powerful now.
That she broke the Alpha.
That she won.
Yeah.
Sure.
Keep telling yourself that.
We grab her.
No whining.
No hesitation.
One move —
and the woman is caught.
Perfect.
Alpha wins.
Alpha — the best husband in the world.
The woman is dripping.
And that?
That’s exactly what we like.