Aiden Reed supported Dr. Richard Quinn down the hallway, half-carrying him as the older man muttered drunkenly, "Just resting my eyes... where's that wine again…"
The man was sleepwalking through nostalgia and cabernet.
Back at the table, Valeria Quinn dropped into her chair with a sigh. "Every time," she muttered. "He knows he's a lightweight and still tries to go shot-for-shot. Didn't even touch his entrée."
She stared at the half-eaten spread on the table, her expression dipping with disappointment. This dinner had been orchestrated to sell a story—warm, romantic, convincing. But instead of a soft fadeout with coffee and conversation, they'd gotten an unconscious father and an increasingly suspicious mother.
Aiden, still standing, raised an eyebrow. You're the one who kept refilling his glass. Now you're blaming him? She could light a building on fire and complain about the smoke.
"You two eat," said Victoria, laying her chopsticks down. "Don't worry about your father. I'll bring some fruit."
Valeria called after her. "Mom, it's fine. Aiden and I should head out soon anyway. I've got to pack—there's a gala in L.A. tomorrow."
Victoria reemerged from the kitchen with a dish towel in hand, brow furrowed. "So soon? Did we say something wrong?"
Valeria mustered a faint smile. "No, it's just work. Tight schedule."
The truth was more complicated.
After the surprise "marriage" announcement, a few endorsement contracts had gone dark. PR managers stopped returning calls. Brands didn't like curveballs—especially not the kind involving hidden husbands and no glossy wedding photos.
But some deals—major ones, with network shows and corporate sponsorships—were still in motion, locked in by old favors and public pressure. How long they'd last was anyone's guess.
Next year could be a free fall.
"You're always running," Victoria said softly. "When do you stop?"
Valeria kept her voice light. "Actually, I've been thinking about scaling back. Fewer shoots, less travel. Maybe I'll even try gardening. Buy some rubber boots and chase deer off the patio."
Victoria blinked. Then smiled. "You don't need to earn the whole world, sweetheart. You've already done more than enough."
"I know," Valeria said. "Time to slow down. Read poetry. Feed ducks in the park. That sort of thing."
"You'd get bored in three days," Aiden muttered.
She kicked him under the table.
Victoria chuckled. Then she stood up. "Wait here." A few minutes later, she returned carrying two heavy bundles wrapped in cloth. "These are for you," she told Aiden. "Beginner history books. Context is everything. If you want to understand where Valeria comes from, this is a good place to start."
Aiden accepted the bundles—solid bricks of academic tomes and annotated hardcovers. Easily thirty pounds.
"And these," Victoria added, dropping another stack into his arms, "are from Richard's college days—livestock and veterinary science. Might help your family's farm."
Aiden's expression softened. This wasn't just tolerance.
This was a gesture of acceptance.
"Thank you," he said, and meant it.
They left shortly after. A hired driver took them back to the villa while Aiden stopped to ship the books directly to his mom's address in Vermont. That kind of gift mattered—especially to a woman who'd once fixed a busted tractor with duct tape and YouTube.
The Next Morning
Aiden woke to one undeniable truth: he had to pee.
Fifteen hours of sleep had factory-reset his entire system. No stress. No backache. Even the permanent shadows under his eyes were gone. The whole "meet-the-parents" debacle? In the rearview.
He stepped out of the bathroom, stretching—
Click.
The front door unlocked and swung open.
He assumed it was Valeria, maybe back from a run.
He was wrong.
In walked Gloria, carrying an air of righteous entitlement like a monogrammed handbag. And right behind her, like a shadow, was Ivy—the ever-silent, always-watching assistant.
Aiden blinked. "How do you have a key?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Gloria replied, already hanging her coat like she owned the deed. "Valeria gave me one months ago. This place used to be empty most days—someone had to water the plants."
"This is my house," Aiden said, yanking his pajama shirt closed. Thank God it was winter. If this had been July, he'd have been standing there in nothing but boxers and panic.
Gloria snorted. "Your house? You've been squatting here for what—two weeks? Do you even know what kind of marble that foyer is? Who imported the chandeliers? What era the moldings are from?"
"I know we're legally married," Aiden snapped. "Which means, technically, I live here. Maybe brush up on your tenant rights law."
"Oh, please. Don't get cocky just because you fast-tracked a courthouse marriage," Gloria sneered, scanning the room like she was casing the place for hidden microphones.
"Ah," Aiden said, deadpan. "Looking for me in bed already? Sorry, not into dry straw."
Gloria stopped mid-step.
Dry straw: coarse, sharp, useless, and better left for livestock.
Her jaw tightened. "I will knock your teeth out one day, you smug little parasite."
"Make sure you have bail money ready," Aiden replied, unfazed. "Assault is still a felony in this state."
She huffed and turned away, stomping toward the stairs.
Then it hit him.
She was heading upstairs.
To Valeria's room.
The room that had absolutely zero evidence of his existence. No toothbrush. No robe. No trace of the supposed "loving husband."
Panic hit like a freight train.
"Babe!" he shouted, bolting after her. "GLORIA'S HERE! VAL—GLORIA IS IN THE HOUSE!"
He sounded like someone spotting a grizzly bear at the kitchen window.
Two steps at a time, Aiden sprinted up the stairs.
And there she was—Gloria, hand already on Valeria's bedroom doorknob, pushing it open without knocking.
Crap.