How To Apply Home Management: Plain And Simple Tips At Home?

I was just a married woman trying to survive my husband’s debts. But when I took the job as a maid for three powerful, controlling, dominant men. I walked into something far darker than dusty shelves and dishes in the sink. They don’t just want their floors spotless. No, they want me bound and bent over on their bed. They say I’m too pretty to be stuck with a loser and too sweet for plain sex and too soft to resist them. And they’ll stop at nothing until they ruin my marriage, break me open and make me theirs. Even if it means dragging me into a world where dominance is law, and obedience is survival.

Rule 1: Don’t fall in love with me Rule 2- Don’t touch my things Rule 3: This is not your home, don’t decorate/ change anything Rule 4: Stay out of my Business Rule 5: Don’t ever be seen in public with another man. Rule 6: Don’t touch me. Rule 7: Don’t ever enter my room You know the things about Contract Marriage, they come with rules right? Rules are meant to be broken, but that's just my thoughts. My 6’5 husband, the epitome of irresistible allure and captivating mystery prefers I follow his rules while he's all busy. But the thing is, we both needed this marriage so why should it be His rules? I mean I know I got my own rules and I'll be damn if he doesn't follow them just as I do his. Even I know how to dress up and look good. Now he's thrown into the corner with my rules, it's a battle he intends on winning but tough shit cause so do I. But those are not the only rules that should not be broken, is it? The rules of the heart cannot be obey and Dammit if he doesn't make me swoon but this is our Marriage, Our rules.

We had been married for three years, and together, our income was decent at twenty-six grand a month. Yet, we barely had two hundred bucks in savings. My husband was a nice guy, lending practically his entire wages to our next-door widow and her daughter. He covered their expenses when the daughter needed money for school, when the widow needed a little time at the spa, and when they wanted to give their home a new facelift. The moment my father fell ill and needed surgery, I went next door to ask for the money back. However, my neighbors slammed the door in my face. “Your husband chose to give us the money. Why should we pay you back?” Enraged, I sought help from my husband, only to be criticized. “I felt bad for them. Why did you demand payment when they are already struggling? What’s wrong with you?” I smirked. That night, I decided to do a good deed by spending my entire paycheck to help a broke college hunk. The next day, our power was cut off for unpaid bills, and my husband lost an unfinished document he hadn’t saved. Putting his finger up my nose, he gave me a piece of his mind. “Where’s your money? Why didn’t you pay the bills?” I replied with the most innocent look on my face, “I helped a struggling college student. His life was falling apart because he had to deal with a sick mom and a deadbeat dad. His needs should come before the utility bills.”

This was the hundredth time Mom caught Dad throwing thousands of dollars at social media influencers. She didn't scream or make a scene for the entire construction crew to laugh at anymore, nor did she pause her work. Dad thought she had finally learned her place and grown sensible. The very next month, he invited every single worker on the job site to attend his wedding. However, he kept Mom and me out of it. When the workers returned, they were all gossiping about how Mom, the worn-out house-cat, had been replaced by a beauty. The bride was a meticulously dolled-up young woman. I had seen her on his phone many times. Every time, she would be wearing next to nothing, dancing on camera while calling my dad her "Big Spender", right before Dad transferred amounts of money to her with many zeros at the end. Mom looked calmly at them. Unfastening her apron, she thrust the spatula into the woman's hands. "The workers' massive daily meals will be on you from now on." Dad's expression hardened instantly, and he slapped Mom's hand away. "Are you out of your mind?! There are over a hundred people on this site. How could you possibly make Abigail cook for them? It would wear her out! She married me to live in luxury!" "And living in a shack on a construction site isn't too much for our daughter?" The young woman stepped forward to play the peacemaker. "Oh, I heard you and my husband started working on construction sites together ten years ago. The kid must be totally used to it by now. "You can just stay on as the housekeeper. I won't kick you guys out." As if granting charity, Dad commanded Mom, "Hurry up and thank Abigail for her generosity. She's the new matriarch around here. We're all one family now." Mom didn't say another word, simply closing the drafty corrugated tin door. "Bailey, I saved up a bit of money. How about I take you somewhere else to go to school?"

My mom decides to implement an income-based rationing system. Everything at home is delegated to everyone based on their income. At a holiday dinner, I decide to grab myself an extra helping of pasta. As soon as I fill up my plate, my mom snatches it from my hands. "Hold on. Just look at the spread on the table. The sea bass is already worth 180 dollars. The scallops are worth 200, whereas the lobster goes for 300 dollars. "You only earn 3,000 dollars per month. If you want a second serving, you must pay up first. I'll charge you based on the family rate. It'll be three dollars, thank you very much." My mom sticks out three fingers while smiling at me.

My wife, Vivian Lane, is the wealthiest woman. Her assistant had made it clear he had three "do-not-disturb" rules: no messages after work, no calls on weekends, and absolutely no contact when he was in a bad mood. Because of this, the company lost a major deal—one worth over a hundred million. Yet the assistant looked completely unbothered. "Sorry, I had no idea one phone call could make such a difference. If something goes wrong and I have to be the one to take the blame, fine—I'm just another cog in the machine." My wife snapped, "Who said anything about blaming you? You did exactly what you were told." She shot me a look of pure irritation. "You take the profits from the project, and when things fall apart, you dump it on the regular employees? Is that how you run a business? If your company folds over something this small, it just proves you're not fit to be in charge." It suddenly clicked, and I let out a quiet laugh. So she thought this project belonged to my company? I didn't bother correcting her. To be honest, I couldn't really hold it against her—after all, it wasn't my company going under.