My name is Marcus. For the past three years, I have lived in a state of pounding stress that never seems to break. I am an architect, working sixty hours a week to maintain a lifestyle that is slowly killing my spirit. I fell in love with Chloe because of her radiant looks and her seemingly sweet nature, but that beauty has become a vici:ous trap. Chloe has been unemployed for nearly two years, yet she treats my bank account like a bottomless pit of free dollars for her shopping addictions, all while our home turns into a wreckage of neglect. I believed our relationship was a partnership built on mutual respect, but I have slowly realized that I am merely a ghost in my own life, a source of revenue for a woman who has forgotten how to care for anything but her own reflection.

Every morning, I wake up at 6:00 AM to the sound of her snoring. I head to the kitchen, which is usually a disgusting mess of unwashed dishes and stale takeout boxes from the night before. I have to scrub the counters and make my own coffee before rushing to the office to earn the thousands of dollars required to keep us afloat. Meanwhile, Chloe sleeps until noon. When she finally wakes up, she doesn't look for a job or even pick up a broom. Instead, she spends hours at her vanity desk, lost in a mountain of make-up, or browsing online stores to find the next fashion trend she wants to buy. The house remains in a state of stagnant decay, yet she moves through it with a blind indifference that feels like a deliberate insult to my hard work.

The financial strain is a heavy weight on my shoulders. Last month, I had saved three thousand dollars to pay for our car insurance and mounting debt. When I checked the account, the money had vanished. Chloe had spent it all on a "shopping haul"—designer handbags, piles of expensive lipsticks, and luxury eyeshadow palettes that she claimed were "essential" for her self-esteem. When I tried to confront her, she turned into a mali:cious critic, screaming that I was "cheap" and that I didn't care about her happiness. She used her charm as a weapon, making me feel like a wretched person for even questioning her brazen spending. I felt the sharp sting of her words, a cold reminder that my only value in her eyes was the balance in my checking account.

"You're so lucky to have a woman who looks as polished as I do, Marcus," she would say with a shameless smirk while applying a layer of fifty-dollar foundation. "The least you can do is pay for the clothes and make-up that make me look good for you. Cooking and cleaning is for people who don't have better things to do."

Her laziness is a stain on our relationship. I come home from a tiring day at work, my mind exhausted from deadlines, only to find the house in total chaos. She won't even boil water for pasta. She expects me to order expensive delivery or cook a three-course meal while she sits on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through her phone for more things to buy. If I ask for help, she acts like a victim, claiming she has "burnout" from the stress of being home all day. It is a lie that I am no longer able to swallow. I am drowning in a sea of housework and professional pressure, while she floats on the surface, preoccupied with the shade of her lipstick.

I feel like a parasi:te is living in my home. I am providing everything—the roof, the food, the endless shopping bags—and in return, I get a cold, to:xic atmosphere and a mountain of chores. I have become a servant in my own house, a man whose only value is the dollars he brings home. My friends have stopped visiting because they can't stand the smell of the unwashed laundry and the way Chloe treats me like an useless ATM. The isolation is a heavy shroud, wrapping itself around me until I can barely remember the man I used to be before her greed began to consume our shared space.

The most horrible realization hit me last night. I looked at her as she was surrounded by dozens of open make-up boxes and new clothes with the tags still on, and I realized I didn't feel any attraction anymore. Her external beauty was shattered by the wretched darkness of her character. She is a selfish, heartless woman who is perfectly happy watching me drown as long as she has the latest designer collection. Our relationship isn't a partnership; it is a bru:tal exploitation. I saw the hollowness in her eyes, a void that no amount of expensive silk or designer powder could ever hope to fill.

I am reaching my breaking point. The pounding headache of this to:xic life is becoming unbearable. I am tired of the dirty dishes, the empty bank account, and the mali:cious indifference she shows toward my hard work. I am starting to see that I would rather be alone in a clean, quiet house than stay in this wreckage of a relationship. I deserve a woman who understands that love is about mutual effort, not about how many thousands of dollars you can spend on a face that doesn't even know how to smile at me with genuine gratitude.

I am preparing to end this nightmare. I am going to stop funding her shopping sprees and start reclaiming my life. The era of being a victim to her greed is over. I am moving toward a future where my hard work belongs to me, and my home is finally a sanctuary once again.