Morning had finally muscled its way past night, and sunlight spilled over Manhattan's skyline like molten gold.
Aiden Reed had been awake long before the light made its way across the windows.
Sleep had proven useless. Too much noise in his head.
He'd moved into Valeria's brownstone just hours ago—settling into the guest room on the first floor while she stayed upstairs in the master suite. Despite how short their history was, the distance between them was already shrinking. And with today's mission—meeting her parents—he could feel the walls turning to paper.
He had gone through every ritual he knew: shower, shave, mouthwash, hair dryer, cologne—just enough to smell respectable, not desperate. If he was going to walk into enemy territory, he'd do it looking the part. He might be an uninvited guest in their daughter's life, but he'd damn well be the most presentable one.
Knock knock knock.
A soft knock rapped against the bathroom door.
"What's up?" he called, setting the dryer down.
He cracked the door open—only to be hit with a double dose of danger.
Valeria stood there in a rose-gold silk robe, curls tumbling down her shoulders, the fabric of the robe just brushing her upper thighs.
Hormones? Engaged. Panic? Also very engaged.
Breathe, Reed. You're not fifteen.
"Have you seen Twitter?" she asked, like she wasn't currently derailing his entire central nervous system.
He didn't look at her—he looked past her, like the mirror was infinitely more interesting than the curve of her legs.
"No. Something blow up?"
"I heard you had a crush on me back in middle school," she said, holding up her phone.
Aiden blinked. "From who?"
"Apparently, the entire internet." She held the phone out to him, one perfectly arched brow raised.
He took it, eyes narrowing—then widening.
The trending hashtag slapped him in the face:
#TenYearCrushFinallyPaysOff
Over forty-three million views.
His casual post last night—just a cute backstory to soften their sudden marriage reveal—had morphed into full-blown mythos. Strangers were inventing chapters. Imaginary love letters. Fan art.
It was like the internet had launched a spontaneous writing contest, and every romantic on Earth had submitted their own version of the fairy tale.
Top comments read like a shrine:
"This man waited ten years? That's not love. That's fate, baby."
"Real men choose love, not clout. He's built different."
"He grinded for affection while we grinded ranked matches. I'm weeping."
"Someone give this guy a series deal and a Grammy for effort."
Aiden's face tightened. This wasn't viral. This was digital canonization.
He groaned. "Did I oversell it?"
Valeria leaned against the doorframe, amusement curling her lips.
"So…" she asked, tilting her head, "was it true?"
"What?"
"That you had a crush on me back in school."
"Absolute lies," he said immediately, handing the phone back. "I was a disciplined student. No time for hormones."
She smirked. "Right. And I'm the Queen of England."
Aiden retreated to his room like a man fleeing a fire.
But even as he closed the door, a cold itch crept across his spine. Something wasn't right.
The viral attention—the surge of positivity, the surgically clean press, the curated images? All too smooth. Too intentional. It was like someone was brushing dust off a narrative, making sure it sparkled just right.
He hadn't been a saint. He'd definitely skipped class for burritos or gaming tournaments. Yet the internet had handed him a halo and knighted him.
Manufactured perfection rarely came without architects.
Valeria followed, lounging lazily against the doorway like sunlight incarnate.
"So, Mr. Reed," she said, voice lilting, "what's it like being married to your childhood dream girl?"
Aiden arched a brow. "You really believe everything strangers post online?"
"Fanfiction is fiction," she mused. "But it always reveals the reader's fantasies. What's yours?"
He turned to the closet. "You planning to stay and watch me change too?"
"Obviously."
"Out."
"We're married, remember?"
"Out."
He slammed the door as her laughter danced down the hallway.
Thirty minutes later, Aiden emerged from the guest room in the tailored charcoal-gray suit she'd picked for him. It hugged his frame like it had been built for him by someone who knew the difference between ordinary and memorable.
He looked like he belonged on a glossy magazine cover titled Trust Fund Heir Marries for Love.
Still, no sign of Valeria. Predictable. No one ever beat a woman racing eyeliner and heels.
He sank into the buttery leather couch in the open-concept living room and checked the time. 9:02 AM.
He opened Twitter again.
The algorithm had been fed—and it was feasting.
"Valeria Quinn Spotted Shopping with Husband — Aiden Reed Identified as the Mystery Man!"
Photos filled the feed like confetti.
Them laughing over steak. Holding shopping bags. Smiling at each other. Even one with her feeding him a bite of lamb.
He hadn't posted a single one.
The angles were too perfect. The lighting too intentional. This wasn't paparazzi luck—it was a PR masterpiece.
First came the love story. Then came the visuals. The rollout was airtight.
"Every time I lose faith in love, these two show up like rom-com Avengers."
"I feel personally attacked by their chemistry."
"Get them off my timeline before I propose to someone out of spite."
Aiden wasn't sure whether to be flattered or deeply paranoid.
He checked the time again. 9:45.
"Where the hell is she?" he muttered.
As if on cue, the sharp click of heels echoed from upstairs.
Valeria descended the staircase slowly, and he immediately forgot how to breathe.
Black velvet blouse. Beige plaid midi skirt. Wine-red overcoat. Leather boots that could break egos. Her makeup was subtle, surgical. Her hair fell in soft, polished waves.
She didn't just look good. She looked intentional.
"You headed to the Oscars?" he asked, blinking.
"It's brunch with my parents. I need them to see I'm happy. Glowing. Thriving."
He paused, caught off guard. "That's... actually kind of sweet."
She grabbed her clutch and flashed a grin. "I don't do halfway impressions."
Thirty minutes later, their car rolled into a quiet, ivy-lined neighborhood near Columbia University.
The area looked like it belonged to people with doctorates and tenured security. Brick buildings in tidy rows. Trees that had stories. Humble, but refined.
Aiden stepped out with two gift boxes—one under each arm. One held a rare tea blend; the other, limited-edition skincare from Paris.
His palms were damp.
He wasn't just meeting her parents. He was auditioning for a role in their daughter's life—a role they didn't cast.
Valeria led him up the narrow staircase. They stopped at a brown door labeled 6B.
"This is home," she said softly.
Aiden nodded, adjusted his cuffs, then whispered, "Okay. Let's do this."
She smiled and rang the bell.
A few seconds later, the door opened.
And there he was.
A tall man in his mid-fifties, hair graying at the temples, eyes sharp behind wire-framed glasses—holding a glistening kitchen knife.
Still wet from whatever he'd just been chopping.
Aiden's heart stopped. His soul tried to evacuate through his shoes.
"Hi," he croaked, holding out the tea like a peace offering. "I, uh… brought caffeine."