Author's Pov....
The sun filtered softly through the half-drawn curtains as Ren lay sprawled across his bed like a defeated prince. His entire body ached from yesterday's "training session" with the so-called military husband.
His legs? Gone. His arms? Dead. His soul? Somewhere in the afterlife sipping iced tea.
But today…
Ah, today was different.
He had finally come up with a plan.
He locked the bedroom door. Double-checked it. Wedged a chair under the handle. Even stacked boxes in front of it. No husband was going to barge in today.
"No more running laps, no more surprise roles, no more weird costumes," Ren muttered as he nestled into his fluffy blanket. "Peace. I have earned peace."
The morning passed in blissful silence.
No loud patriotic songs. No CEOs. No butlers. No plumbers.
Just the sound of birds chirping and Ren's soft, satisfied breathing as he drifted off into a well-deserved nap.
Finally, I can rest…
BANG!
A deafening crash shook the entire room. The door—his fortress—slammed open, sending the chair and boxes flying.
Ren shot up in bed like he'd been electrocuted. His wide eyes darted to the doorway.
Standing there was Evan.
But this Evan was wearing a perfectly pressed white shirt, black tie, shiny shoes, and rectangular glasses perched low on his nose. His sleeves were rolled neatly to his elbows, and in one hand, he carried a thick, ominous-looking clipboard.
Behind him stormed a team of stern-looking men in suits.
"THIS IS THE INCOME TAX DEPARTMENT!" the man barked, adjusting his glasses with a glint.
"ALL RESIDENTS ARE HEREBY SUBJECT TO AN IMMEDIATE RAID!"
"…A tax raid?!" Ren sputtered, half asleep. "Isn't this your house?!"
The man, who Ren was quickly realizing was Evan's newest personality, snapped his clipboard open with sharp precision.
"Irrelevant. Assets must be inspected regardless of location."
The suited men immediately scattered around the room, opening drawers, flipping pillows, shaking out Ren's socks like they might be hiding diamonds.
Ren flailed out of bed, grabbing his pillow like a shield. "W-WAIT! What are you inspecting?!"
The man walked in with a cold, calculating air and scribbled something down. "Your love taxes. Suspiciously unpaid."
"WHAT EVEN ARE LOVE TAXES?!"
He ignored Ren's protests and briskly circled the room, opening his closet and—without shame—tossing Ren's shirts and silk pajamas over his shoulder one by one.
"Hmm. Excessive amounts of soft clothing," he muttered, poking Ren's sweaters. "Clearly used to seduce."
Ren blushed furiously, hugging his pillow tighter. "I—I just like soft clothes!"
He whipped around, pen tapping against the clipboard. "Evading taxes is a crime, sir."
"BUT THIS IS YOUR HOUSE!"
"Again. Irrelevant. I am Officer Drew now," Evan said with absolute authority, as if this was the most normal conversation in the world.
"And as per section 143 of the Love Assets Inspection Act—"
"THAT'S NOT REAL—"
"All articles connected to emotional assets must be seized immediately."
With a sharp nod, he gestured to his men. "Collect all suspiciously adorable items, starting with those bunny slippers."
One of the suited men reached for Ren's beloved slippers, but Ren dove for them like they were ancient treasure. "DON'T TOUCH THEM—!"
Officer Drew approached slowly, kneeling to meet Ren's flustered gaze.
"You have three options," he whispered, adjusting his glasses with a sly smirk. "One, surrender all love taxes. Two, face immediate confiscation of your heart. Three, I follow you every moment to ensure compliance."
Ren's mouth opened, then closed. "You just….you just want an excuse to stick to me, don't you?!"
"An excellent deduction," Drew said proudly, closing his clipboard.
"Surveillance begins now."
And just like that, the entire day became a nightmare. Officer Drew followed Ren everywhere.
When Ren went to pour tea, Drew appeared beside him: "Are you declaring this tea as an emotional comfort expense?"
When Ren tried to read, Drew leaned over his shoulder: "Any romantic passages must be reported for inspection."
When Ren tried to go to the bathroom—
"Emotional reflection time in the mirror must not exceed the allowed limit."
"GET OUT!" Ren screamed, throwing a towel at him.
That night, as Ren slumped in bed with a defeated sigh, he groaned into his pillow.
Six husbands down… how many more to go?
The door creaked open.
"Goodnight, Comrade."
"NO MILITARY DRILLS!" Ren cried, throwing his pillow at the door.
"Not me, I'm off duty now," the voice chuckled softly.
Ren's exhausted scream echoed into the mansion halls, the tax officer's clipboard still perched neatly on his bedside table.