Alexia’S POV:
Yep, the stupid husband of mine woke up bright and early, all proud and smug, saying he had already found the "perfect university." Can you believe the nerve? And yes, I was still sleeping on the couch. My back was beginning to hold a grudge against , but I wasn’t about to admit that to him. Not when he was practically glowing with self-satisfaction over his grand plans for my so-called future.
This ti, when he woke up, he wasn’t as loud as the day before. I didn’t even hear him getting up, which, in hindsight, was probably deliberate. The man is punctual to a fault—already dressed and polished as if he had an important eting to attend. If punctuality were a sport, Aiden would have several gold dals by now.
anwhile, there I was, sprawled on the couch, blanket tangled around like a chaotic cocoon. My hair probably looked like a bird’s nest, and I definitely didn’t sll like roses. But hey, wasn’t this the reality of married life? If he expected to look glamorous first thing in the morning, he married the wrong woman.
The couch wasn’t exactly luxury-level comfort, and my back made sure I knew it every ti I moved. Still, I was starting to get used to it—like one of those uncomfortable shoes you tell yourself you’ll "break in" eventually. Not that it mattered. Aiden had clearly decided I didn’t deserve the bed, and I wasn’t about to beg for it.
"Good morning, Alexia," he said, far too chipper for soone who was ruining my life before breakfast.
"Morning," I grumbled, voice still raspy from sleep, as I tried to blink him into focus.
And then he dropped the bombshell. Apparently, not only had he picked out a university for , but he’d also taken care of all the paperwork. All that was left was for to show up and "start my journey of self-growth" or whatever motivational nonsense he’d read in a business book.
Perfect university? Perfectly unnecessary, if you ask .
I had chosen to do Business Managent. Yep, you heard that right—the other day when Aiden dumped that thick folder on the lunch table, I spent the entire afternoon combing through it. Mind you, I didn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. The man was relentless, practically hovering over like I was about to commit so grave sin if I didn’t pick the "right" course.
Let’s be clear, it wasn’t because I was super excited about diving back into the academic world or because I had so burning passion for business. No, it was more about survival. He wasn’t going to let this go, and frankly, I didn’t have the energy to fight him on it. Plus, Business Managent seed... neutral enough. Not too boring, not too complicated, and definitely sothing that would look good on paper if anyone asked.
But oh, the struggle of picking it! That folder wasn’t just filled with course options; it was a labyrinth of glossy brochures, printouts, and notes written in his annoyingly neat handwriting. I swear, there was probably enough material in there to plan an entire curriculum.
I had flipped through everything—Engineering, Law, dicine (as if!), even Fine Arts. And while so of them looked interesting for about five seconds, they all scread "commitnt," and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of drama. Business Managent, on the other hand, felt like the least painful option. A safe choice.
By the ti I finally decided and announced it to Aiden, he just nodded, smirked like he had won so silent battle, and left the room. No "good job," no "I’m proud of you"—just a stupid smirk. Typical. I, on the other hand, felt like I had just climbed a mountain only to find a sarcastic flag planted at the top.
So yeah, Business Managent it was. Not because I was thrilled about it, but because at least it gave him one less thing to nag about. And if it got out of the house for a few hours a day, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Or so I kept telling myself.
Back to my morning. So, yes, apparently, I still had to go in. Aiden, in all his uptight, perfectionist glory, had already sorted out the details—of course he had. It wasn’t just "pick a course and call it a day" with him. Oh no, he had to take it ten steps further and arrange for to start right away. And by "right away," I an today.
There I was, still half-asleep on the couch, with his voice booming over my peaceful morning haze. He didn’t even bother with a gentle nudge or a "Good morning, my dear wife." Nope. It was straight to business. "You’re starting today," he said, like he was announcing the weather.
I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head in protest. Didn’t this man know how to relax? I an, he’d already won, right? I was going back to school, and he didn’t have to nag anymore. Couldn’t he just let sleep in one last ti?
But no, Aiden wasn’t having any of it. He stood there, dressed immaculately in his crisp white shirt and tailored pants—how he always managed to look like he just walked out of a magazine, I’ll never understand—and practically dragged out of my cozy cocoon of laziness. "You’re going to be late," he said, all calm and smug. Late? It wasn’t even 8 a.m.!
After so dramatic groaning and a few half-hearted protests, I finally dragged myself to the bathroom. The perks of living in a mansion? The bathroom was bigger than my entire old apartnt. The downside? It didn’t make getting up and ready any less annoying.
I shuffled back to the bedroom, still grumpy, and opened my wardrobe. Another surprise, courtesy of Aiden: an entire section dedicated to "appropriate attire for a university student." Seriously, who does that? Half the stuff still had tags on it. I grabbed a simple blouse and jeans—because, let’s be real, I wasn’t about to strut into class looking like I was heading to a corporate board eting—and got ready.
When I finally made it downstairs, there he was, sipping his coffee like the smug tyrant he was. "Breakfast is on the table," he said, not even looking up. Ugh, this man. I grabbed a slice of toast and stuffed it in my mouth, mumbling sothing about how unfair life was.
And then ca the kicker. "I’ll drop you off," he said casually.
What? Oh no. I didn’t need that kind of attention. Aiden pulling up in one of his flashy cars to drop off on my first day? I’d have the entire campus talking about before I even set foot inside. I tried to argue, but one look at his raised eyebrow and I knew it was pointless.
So there I was, sitting in the passenger seat of his ridiculously expensive car, watching the world blur by as he drove to my new academic prison.
You could tell the stupid jerk was loving every second of my misery. That smug expression of his was practically screaming, "This is my grand plan, and you’re stuck in it." I glared out of the window, arms crossed, trying to think of a coback that would properly convey my frustration. But nothing prepared for what happened next.
We pulled up to the gates, and I swear my jaw hit the floor. Gumdrop. Just... gumdrop. Of all the places he could’ve sent , this had to be it.
Fedha University.
Yes, that Fedha University. The most prestigious institution in the entire country. The kind of place where tuition fees are enough to buy a small island. The kind of place where people casually stroll around in designer clothes and drive cars more expensive than my entire existence.
I turned to Aiden, who was already looking way too pleased with himself. "Are you kidding ?" I asked, my voice a mix of disbelief and panic. The folder he’d shoved in my face at lunch yesterday didn’t say a thing about which university it was. I just assud it would be sothing normal—sothing for people who didn’t have private jets waiting for them after class. But no, of course not. This was Aiden, the king of over-the-top.
My mind was spinning. I’d spent most of my life avoiding places like this. Rich, bratty kids who’d judge for everything—from the way I walked to the way I breathed—were the last thing I wanted to deal with. And now I was about to be surrounded by them.
"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Now I not only have to deal with being the older student in the room but also the poor one."
Aiden, of course, was unbothered. He parked the car like he owned the entire campus—which, honestly, he probably did—and got out, leaving to scramble after him. Students were already starting to stare. Oh, how I wanted to disappear.
He handed a folder—another one—and gave that signature smirk. "All set," he said, like this was a perfectly normal thing to do. Like dropping off at the Ivy League of the country was no big deal.
I wanted to punch him. Instead, I plastered on the fakest smile I could muster, grabbed the folder, and mumbled sothing incoherent before heading inside.
As I walked through the gates, surrounded by students who looked like they’d just stepped out of a fashion magazine, I couldn’t help but think: This is going to be a disaster.
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