That evening, I pressed him for answers, but instead of explaining, he snapped back with arrogance, saying “real women”
obey their husbands. My instincts screamed that this was more than just a mood swing. While he was showering,
I noticed he’d left his phone on the counter. I hesitated, then opened it. What I found turned my stomach: a group chat called
“How to Dominate Women,” full of disgusting advice on controlling wives. One message said: “Make her change her appearance to test your authority.”
I didn’t fall apart—I got creative. The next day, I showed up as the blonde version of every 1950s housewife stereotype—sky-high heels,
fake cheerful tone, the whole act. I told Jason I had quit my job to fully embrace his “vision” of a perfect wife.
Panic set in fast—he realized he couldn’t afford to support us alone. When he begged me to go back to normal,
I ripped off the blonde wig and stared him down. He looked stunned. “Claire, please,” he stammered. “I’ll delete the chat. I messed up. Just… give me a chance.”
