If you told me last week that Celestia Moreau—the girl who once asked me why I had "so many boring books" stacked in neat alphabetical order—would suddenly enforce a six-hour daily study schedule, I'd have laughed in your face.
But that was exactly what happened after results dropped.
"Sit, nerd. Open the book. Read," she'd ordered that morning, pushing me into my chair like a prison guard.
I raised a brow. "You do realize you don't need to read for six hours. You're already—"
"—first place?" she cut in with a smug smile. "Yeah, I know. But we're aiming for matching crowns next semester, husband. You and me, king and queen. Six hours. Minimum."
Her idea. Her rules.
And somehow, I found myself with a stopwatch on my desk, her curling up beside me with her own pile of books.
