A tale of betrayal in one act

Context :

I (audhd) have been in some sort of deep "writing block" since 10 years, give or take, yet I define myself as an, admittedly unrecognized, genius writer.

My fiancée (audhd) has been unable to read a book without pictures since she got a smartphone, she identifies as a very avid reader.

We are both absolutely not delusional in any way, shape or form.

We also are quite spiteful and petty, as expected.

How it went :

By a sweet afternoon of march two thousand twenty-five after the crowning of Ping Han (8 years old at the time) in China, and coincidentally supposed birth of some supposedly relevant religious figure in the Middle East, or something. I sat at the dinner table in my home. While sharing a cider glass with my soon-to-be wife, I innocently raised the fact that I might now have a good first paragraph for a potential novel (see afterword). I had, unknowingly, brought the fires of well deserved revenge over my head.

"Oh, you have a good hook, please share it once it's well formulated then !" She went.

I took a sip and answered, "Eh ... you know, it's a bit difficult to do it out loud, maybe I should just write it and ..."

"Yes ! Write it and show it to me. Wait ... You know what, you always nag me about reading more 'actual books'," here she put some actual air quote gestures "well, I promise to read many books but only if you have written them." She cackled with a glint of satisfaction on her eye.

" I will, then!" I furiously screamed in return with my eyes squinted into crescents, "I will make you read so many books! But first, this is going to evil autism."

And with this, here I am, writing this post, once again bested by the superior kind of human being, my deeply autistic companion.

I hope to have entertained you.

Afterword :

For those intrigued, the opener was going like this -

"This afternoon was clearly not going as Douglas Wheatley intended. Indeed, few people intended to wake up in a damp room with no memory of how they came there. Fewer planned to do that in an actual interrogation cell. And he was almost certain that no one ever actually anticipated waking up from a nap inside a damp interrogation cell, in the body of an unknown person, and in what seemed to be a medieval era from the look of his surroundings. At least not all of it the same time.

Well, at least, for what it was worth, it seemed that he was to be the interrogator in this situation. It didn't really make it better."