Aiden POV:
No, I don’t like her. No, I don’t care about her in that way. But I care in the sense that she is my wife, and I have an image to uphold—one of a happy, loving marriage.
With that said, let explain why I went to her school today with a sandwich and a bottle of juice.
This morning, I had completely forgotten about the dia coverage scheduled regarding the rumors of my sudden wedding. The board wanted to clarify the situation and ensure the public that this wasn’t so publicity stunt or an arranged deal—well, technically, it was, but they didn’t need to know that.
So, I went in without much preparation but with one goal in mind: to sell the image of a perfect couple.
It didn’t take long for the questions to start.
One reporter—clearly fishing for drama—asked if my wife only married for my money.
Well, technically, yes, she did. And no, she doesn’t love . That would have been the honest answer.
But again, not for the public to know.
So, I looked the reporter dead in the eye and said, "No, she did not marry for my money." And then, because I knew just denying it wasn’t enough, I spun a perfectly crafted story.
"I was the first one to get interested in her," I began, keeping my expression soft but firm. "And when I learned she hated rich n, I had to hide my identity. I approached her as just an ordinary guy with a normal job, just soone who wanted to know her. She rejected several tis—" I paused, chuckling slightly, as if recalling fond mories. "—but I kept pursuing her. And when I finally proposed, she agreed. But the mont I revealed my true identity, she canceled the engagent on the spot."
Gasps filled the room.
I almost laughed.
"But," I continued, "eventually, she accepted both and my wealth. And yes, it was a challenge." I let out a small sigh, as if recalling the hardships of winning over my one true love. "But in the end, she didn’t marry for my money. She married because we chose each other."
A wave of applause erupted.
A few awed reporters exchanged looks like they had just witnessed the most romantic love story of the century.
Yeah, right. If only they knew the actual reality.
Then ca the next question.
A jealous-looking blonde reporter, arms crossed, lips pursed, asked with a slight sneer, "If your love story is so beautiful, then why didn’t you two go on a honeymoon? You resud work after one day of marriage. That doesn’t exactly scream love-struck newlyweds."
Now that was a tricky one.
I couldn’t exactly tell them the truth—that we barely tolerate each other and a honeymoon was the last thing on our minds.
So, I smoothly replied, "My wife is an incredibly intelligent woman, but unfortunately, she didn’t have the opportunity to attend university due to certain circumstances. As a wedding gift, I ensured she got admitted to one of the best universities. And because the academic year had already begun, I didn’t want her to fall behind."
I let that sink in before adding, "So, we made a mutual decision to postpone our honeymoon until her first sester break, so it wouldn’t disrupt her studies."
Another round of applause.
Another wave of soft sighs and dreamy looks from the reporters.
If they only knew the hell I go through every morning just to drag her out of bed, they’d feel sorry for .
But again, not for them to know.
The blonde reporter, clearly out for blood, wasn’t done with her interrogation. She crossed her arms, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against her notepad, and asked,
"If your love story is so touching, then why did you settle for a small civil wedding instead of the grand and lavish wedding that your wealth could easily afford?"
I clenched my jaw, feeling my patience wear thin.
This woman was testing .
I turned my gaze to her, my expression hardening just enough to remind her exactly who she was dealing with.
With a calm but icy tone, I responded,
"As I already ntioned, Miss, my wife is not as materialistic as you seem to be."
That shut her up for a second.
I continued, "She didn’t want an extravagant wedding. She was not happy about the idea of a huge ceremony filled with unnecessary grandeur. She was happy to marry soone she loved and who loved her back."
I let those words hang in the air, watching as a few reporters nodded approvingly, buying the perfect love story I was selling.
The blonde, though, looked like she had swallowed a lemon.
Good.
Maybe next ti she’d think twice before challenging .
The press conference had been dragging on for a while, but the reporters seed to be getting more comfortable, more familiar with probing into my personal life. Questions about my plans for the future, my relationship with Alexia—things I was prepared to handle with a charming smile and a rehearsed answer.
And then, out of nowhere, one reporter decided to ask a question that almost made spit out the water I was drinking.
"Mr. Timberlake, when can we start expecting an heir?"
An heir.
What in the world? These people were really getting ahead of themselves. If only they knew that Alexia and I weren’t even sharing a bed yet. No heirs in sight, my friend.
I had to compose myself before I choked on my drink and ended up looking like an idiot.
I leaned back, set my glass down carefully, and t the reporter’s gaze with a composed smile.
"As much as I would love a little version of my wife running around here," I began, making sure to emphasize the love part, "a kid right now isn’t really our focus."
I let that statent settle in for a second before continuing, "My wife has her studies to focus on, and I don’t think I’m ready to share her attention and love with my child just yet. Let enjoy her for a while before I start sharing her."
The room broke into laughter, and the chuckles were a bit louder than I expected. A few whispered to each other, probably amused by the honesty of it all.
And why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t about being cruel; it was about putting on the right show for the caras. I wasn’t ready for kids, and I wasn’t about to pretend I was.
I flashed a smile that could rival any Hollywood actor’s, knowing I had just served up the perfect answer, and ntally patted myself on the back.
And you ask why I’m successful? Because I know how to play this ga.
As soon as the press conference wrapped up, I knew one thing for sure—the world would be watching our every move now. The dia had eaten up my answers like it was gourt content, and from this mont forward, Aiden and Alexia Timberlake would be the couple to watch.
And what better way to solidify the perfect husband image than by paying my darling wife a visit?
Before leaving, I made sure to drop one last statent to the press:
"You’ve all made talk about my wife so much today... now, I think I need to go see her."
And oh, did they eat that up. The collective awws and approving murmurs were enough to tell I had them right where I wanted them.
That was how I found myself in my car, personally heading to Alexia’s university, with a sandwich and a bottle of juice in hand.
Why? Because apparently, my adorable wife had left the house without breakfast, and even though she drove insane, I figured I should at least keep her alive.
Also? The caras would love this.
I did not expect to not find her where she ought to be.
Alexia wasn’t in class.
Yeah, she ditched.
And just this morning, I had lied through my teeth about how committed she was to her studies. Perfect.
I clenched my jaw, exhaling slowly. I was so close to storming into the lecture hall and calling her out, but I reined myself in. No need to alert the professor that my wife was playing hooky.
But I knew exactly where to find her.
If Alexia wasn’t snoring, she was eating. And since she didn’t eat breakfast this morning—thanks to her unnecessary dramatics—there was only one place she could be.
The cafeteria.
With calculated steps, I made my way there, already seething. I was so ready to drag her back to class, but the mont I stepped inside, my irritation took a backseat.
Because, of course, my darling wife wasn’t just peacefully enjoying a al.
Nope.
She was right in the middle of yet another ss.
And worse? My stupid step-siblings were there, too.
Great. Just great.
At least my timing was perfect.
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