JAY'S POV — 1st January, 10:32 AM (unfortunately)
The first thing I register when I wake up is sunlight.
The second is panic.
Because sunlight at this angle does not belong to a productive, responsible adult—it belongs to someone who is late, and the second that realization hits, I bolt upright in bed, heart racing, brain already spiraling into damage control mode.
"Oh shit—"
I don't even think, I just move.
Shower—rushed. Hair—barely tamed. Outfit—first sharp thing I can grab.
By the time I'm done, I look like I walked straight out of a boardroom fantasy—tailored pants, crisp shirt, heels, watch, everything screaming I have my life together even though five minutes ago I was mentally screaming into a pillow.
"I'm fine. I'm not late. I'm just… fashionably aggressive," I mutter to myself while rushing downstairs, grabbing my bag, already preparing excuses in my head—
—and then I stop.
Because he's there.
Standing near the floor-to-ceiling window panels, one hand in his pocket, phone pressed to his ear, dressed in a black t-shirt and white pants like he just walked out of some effortless luxury ad instead of a corporate warzone, and for a second my brain just… short-circuits.
Because this?
This is illegal.
There's no reason a man should look that put together doing absolutely nothing.
And the worst part?
He sounds… different.Not office cold. Not controlled business tone.
Something darker. Sharper.
"…I said handle it before it becomes a problem," he says quietly, voice low but carrying something underneath it that makes me pause mid-step, my fingers tightening slightly around my bag.
There's a beat of silence.
Then softer—dangerously calm—"I don't repeat myself."
Okay.
What the hell was that?
Before I can process it further, he turns—and the shift is instant.
Like a switch flipped.
His gaze lands on me, flicks over me once—slow, deliberate—and then whatever that intensity was just… disappears.
"…I'll call you back," he murmurs into the phone, almost like an afterthought, before hanging up.
And then—
That smug look appears.
"A very happy new year," he says casually, voice lighter now, almost teasing. "And a very good morning… wifey."
I blink.
Once.
Twice.
Then narrow my eyes immediately.
"Asshole," I shoot back without missing a beat, crossing my arms. "This is a contract marriage, so don't you dare call me that."
He raises a brow, clearly entertained.
"Relax,wifey" he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. "It really suits you."
"Your face suits wifey, not me," I snap.
That earns me an actual chuckle.
Low. Unfairly attractive.
And I absolutely hate that I notice it.
"Mm," he hums, pushing off the window, taking a few steps closer before his gaze drops—again—slowly, from my face to my outfit and back up.
There's a pause.
Then—
"Where exactly do you think you're going?" he asks.
I blink at him like the question itself is stupid.
"Uhhh.....To the office??" I reply, gesturing at myself. "Where else do people dressed like this go? A wedding sequel?"
There's a beat.
Then he just… looks at me.
And then—
He laughs.
Not loud, not dramatic—but enough that I feel personally attacked.
"Jay," he says, clearly enjoying this far too much, "the office is closed due to holidays."
I frown.
"…What?"
"Uhh New year!!??" he reminds me slowly. "Five days off notice!??? Family!????"
Silence.
And then it hits.
Hard.
"Oh my God."
I close my eyes for a second, mortification crawling up my spine as I look down at myself—fully dressed, fully ready, fully committed to a workday that does not exist.
"Shut up," I mutter under my breath, dragging a hand down my face.
He doesn't.
Of course he doesn't.
"If it helps," he adds, voice laced with amusement, "you look very prepared for absolutely nothing."
"I hate you," I mumble.
"Noted."
I exhale sharply, already turning to go back upstairs and change because I am NOT spending my morning dressed like a corporate overachiever for no reason—
"Don't," he says suddenly.
I pause, turning back slightly. "What?"
He gestures lightly toward me.
"Don't change,keep it on."
I narrow my eyes. "Why?"
And then he drops it—Casual. Like it's nothing.
"Because my mother wants us at the Watson mansion for lunch," he says. "Some post-marital rituals."
I stare at him.
"…You're joking."
"I don't joke about family gatherings," he replies dryly.
I groan instantly, tilting my head back.
"Of course she does. Of course there are rituals. Of course I have to attend them looking like I just got promoted to CEO overnight."
He watches me for a second.
Then—again—that look.
That slow, assessing gaze that lingers just a little too long.
"You're fine," he says quietly.
Something about the way he says it—
Not teasing.
Not mocking.
Just… certain—
Makes my stomach do something I refuse to acknowledge.
So instead, I roll my eyes, grabbing my bag again.
"Next time," I say, walking past him, brushing just close enough to feel it, "try informing your "wifey" before she embarrasses herself."
There's a pause behind me.
Then—
"Where's the fun in that?" he replies smoothly.
I scoff.
But I don't miss the way my lips almost—
Almost—curve and that's the problem because it's barely the first morning of the year—and I'm already not reacting the way I'm supposed to.
My brain suddenly snaps me out of the thoughts and switches into survival mode and I grab my car keys off the console like that's the most logical next step.
"I'll meet you there," I say quickly, already heading toward the door.
There's a pause behind me.
Then—
"…What are you doing?" he asks.
I turn halfway, frowning. "Driving? To your house? Where else would I be going, Keifer?"
He just stares at me for a second.
Then sighs like I've personally disappointed him.
"We're going together," he says, like it's obvious. "Get in my car."
I blink.
"…Why?"
"Because," he says slowly, like he's explaining something very basic, "we're married. We have no NEED to arrive together."
Oh.
Right.
That.
I open my mouth to argue—but then I follow his gaze.
And—
Oh.
Oh wow.
Parked right there like it owns the world is his Aston Martin, sleek, black, obnoxiously perfect, the kind of car that doesn't just exist—it announces itself, and for a second I just stare at it like I've been personally attacked by wealth.
"…That's unnecessary," I mutter.
"It's a car," he replies dryly.
"That's not a car," I shoot back, walking toward it anyway. "That's a personality trait."
He doesn't respond—but I feel the amusement.
We get in, the door shutting with that expensive, soft click that immediately reminds me I am not in control of anything in this situation, and the engine hums to life like it knows it's superior.
I adjust my seat, crossing my arms slightly as I glance at him.
"So," he says after a moment, pulling out smoothly, "remember we need to behave like an actual couple infront of them."
I look at him. "Obviously."
"Lola and Mom will be there," he adds.
"I know."
"And they are not stupid."
"I didn't say they were."
There's a pause.
Then I turn slightly toward him, expression sharpening just a little.
"But," I add, holding his gaze, "remember one thing."
He glances at me briefly. "What?"
"No kissing me.like at all..totally off limits...."
Silence.
Then—
"How the hell are they supposed to believe us if we don't kiss?" he asks, brows pulling together slightly.
I roll my eyes. "Relax. I've handled worse situations than this."
"That's not reassuring."
"Just follow my lead," I say calmly. "And and remember to not kiss me."
He exhales through his nose, clearly unconvinced.
"This is not how married people act."
"This is how we act," I correct smoothly.
Another pause.
Then he shakes his head slightly, like he's already tired of me.
"Fine," he mutters. "Whatever."
"Good."
The rest of the drive is quiet—but not empty.
It's… aware.
Like both of us are already preparing for what's about to happen, already stepping into roles we agreed on but don't fully understand anymore.
And then—
We pull up.
The Watson mansion stands exactly the way you'd expect—grand, intimidating, filled with people who are definitely already watching, already waiting, already ready to analyze every second of what we do.
"Showtime,dickhead.." I mutter under my breath.
He cuts the engine.
We step out and just like that—His hand finds my waist.
The warmth of it sends a sharp, unexpected awareness through me, but I don't react—I just smile, slipping into character like I've done this my entire life.
I lean slightly closer, still smiling, still perfect—
and mutter under my breath,
"Let's go, dickhead."
He huffs softly, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to betray him as he leans in slightly, voice just as low—
"Tss… let's go, wifey."
And just like that—We walk in.Together.Like we were never pretending at all....