CHAPTER 47: A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A RELUCTANT GROOM

Aiden POV:

If there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that everyone has a price. And today, it seems mine is my sanity. I had always thought that the worst torment I could endure was the endless meetings and soulless networking events required to maintain the Timberlake name. How naïve of me. As it turns out, the real torture involves lawyers, inheritance, and a wife who seems to have been sent by the gods to test the limits of my patience.

I should have known today would be a disaster the moment I opened my eyes. If yesterday was chaotic, today was the kind of calamity that could send even the most patient man to the brink of madness. And patience, as it happens, isn’t one of my virtues. After a painfully awkward breakfast—during which my new wife acted like she had been starved for years—I took her to meet Greyson, the so-called lawyer who’s been holding my mother’s inheritance hostage like it’s his personal treasure chest.

After feeding Alexia—which, by the way, has become a chore all on its own—we headed to his office to present the marriage certificate.

Let me pause here for a moment to talk about Alexia and her newfound love for food. It’s as if the woman hasn’t seen a full plate in years. I’m not saying I’m feeding her out of pity; I’m feeding her out of necessity. If I don’t, she’ll probably stage a mutiny or faint in public and embarrass us both.

Anyway, back to the lawyer.

Greyson, the smug, self-important excuse for a lawyer my father has somehow kept in his pocket all these years. I despise him—always have, always will. He represents everything I hate about the vultures circling my late mother’s inheritance. The slimy bastard, barely acknowledged Alexia. He was too busy trying to lay out his latest set of ridiculous conditions for the inheritance transfer. I’d thought that providing a marriage certificate would be enough to satisfy him. Silly me. No, Greyson had to add another layer of hoops for me to jump through, because apparently, marrying a complete stranger on short notice isn’t already humiliating enough.

The man had the audacity to claim that the transfer process would take time. "Paperwork," he said, as if he hadn’t had weeks to prepare. Then he dropped the real kicker: he’d be "monitoring" the marriage to ensure it was genuine. Monitoring! What does that even mean? Was he planning to plant hidden cameras in my house or hire a team of spies?

I asked him exactly that—minus the spy comment—and his smarmy response was that he’d need to see evidence of a happy marriage. Evidence! As if the mere thought of being married to Alexia didn’t already make me want to pull my hair out.

To make matters worse, he initially proposed a six-month period of observation. Six months of pretending to be a doting husband, of sharing my home with a woman whose very presence makes me question my life choices. No. Absolutely not. I told him as much, threatening to take him to court for withholding what was rightfully mine.

Greyson, ever the coward, relented somewhat and reduced the observation period to three months. Three months still felt like an eternity, but at least it was better than six. I agreed to his terms—not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice. I could have taken him to court and won, of course. But that would’ve meant dragging my mother’s name through the mud, and I wasn’t about to do that. She’d worked too hard to build her legacy, and I wasn’t about to let Greyson or my father tarnish it with a public spectacle.

That brings me to Alexia.

When I married her, I thought I was making a practical decision. She was a means to an end, nothing more. But the more time I spend around her, the more I realize that I may have underestimated just how insufferable she can be.

Take dinner, for example. While I was brooding over Greyson’s latest scheme, she was practically inhaling her food like a vacuum cleaner. No decorum, no restraint—just pure, unadulterated gluttony. And the worst part? She seemed completely oblivious to how ridiculous she looked.

When we returned home, I knew I had to lay some ground rules. If Greyson and his spies were going to monitor this sham of a marriage, the least I could do was ensure it looked convincing. That meant no separate rooms, no rumors of discord, and definitely no sign that Alexia and I were anything less than the picture-perfect couple.

After dinner, I told her that we’d be sharing a room. Her reaction was about what I expected—annoyed, incredulous, and utterly exasperated. I didn’t bother explaining the real reason behind my decision. Why should I? It’s not as if she needs to know about Greyson’s ridiculous monitoring scheme. Besides, knowing Alexia, she’d probably find a way to make the situation even more complicated than it already is.

But here’s the thing—I don’t like sharing my space. Not my study, not my living room, and certainly not my bedroom. The idea of having someone invade my sanctuary was enough to make me reconsider the entire arrangement.

Still, necessity outweighed comfort. So, after dinner, I calmly informed Alexia that we’d be sharing a room from now on.

You’d think I’d asked her to donate a kidney.

She didn’t take the news well, to say the least. There was a lot of glaring, muttering under her breath, and general theatrics. But in the end, she complied.

Barely.

Still, I wasn’t thrilled about the arrangement either. I’ve always valued my personal space, and the idea of sharing it with anyone—let alone her—felt like a violation of my very being. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and I wasn’t about to give Greyson any ammunition to use against me.

When I finally made my way to the room later that night, I was already in a foul mood. The last thing I wanted was another argument, but of course, Alexia had other plans.

She was sprawled out on the bed like she owned the place, looking far too comfortable for my liking. I told her to get off the bed, fully expecting her to comply. Instead, she dug in her heels, refusing to budge.

What followed was a battle of wills that I can only describe as utterly ridiculous. She argued, I argued back, and before long, it became clear that neither of us was going to back down.

Finally, I decided to up the ante. I told her that if she insisted on staying in the bed, she might as well fulfill her "wifely duties." That got her moving. She practically launched herself off the bed, glaring daggers at me as she stomped over to the couch.

With Alexia finally out of the bed, I allowed myself a moment of triumph. It was short-lived, of course. She made a show of stealing the covers and loudly declaring her intention to snore all night, as if that would somehow bother me.

It didn’t.

If anything, her antics only served to remind me of how absurd this entire situation is. I married her for convenience, not companionship, and yet here we were, bickering like an old married couple on our very first night together.

As I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder what the next three months would bring. Would Alexia and I find a way to coexist peacefully, or would this marriage turn into an even bigger disaster than it already is?

One thing was certain: the road ahead wasn’t going to be easy. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from my years in the business world, it’s that success requires sacrifice. And if putting up with Alexia’s antics is the price I have to pay to secure my mother’s legacy, then so be it.

For now, I’ll endure. But Greyson, my father, and anyone else who thinks they can stand in my way should know this: once I’ve secured what’s rightfully mine, there will be hell to pay.

And as for Alexia? Well, let’s just say she’d better not make herself too comfortable. After all, this marriage is temporary. Or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

The muffled sound of Alexia muttering to herself from the couch was mildly entertaining. She was like a tiny, furious tornado, wreaking havoc wherever she went.

Leaning back against the headboard, I allowed myself a small smirk. If she thought she was going to win this battle of wills, she had another thing coming.

The room was finally quiet, save for her occasional huffs of frustration. I closed my eyes, ready to drift off into the sweet oblivion of sleep. But then, just as I was on the verge of unconsciousness, a loud, obnoxious snore shattered the silence.

Opening one eye, I glanced toward the couch. There she was, sprawled out like a starfish, the covers half-dragging on the floor, her mouth slightly open as she let out another thunderous snore.

Unbelievable.

Shaking my head, I closed my eyes again, determined to ignore her. But the snoring continued, growing louder with each passing second.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. Grabbing the remaining pillow from the bed, I hurled it across the room, hitting her square in the face.

"What the—?!" she yelped, sitting up abruptly.

"Shut up and go to sleep," I said, my voice dripping with irritation.

"You shut up!" she shot back, throwing the pillow right back at me.

And so, our ridiculous war continued into the night—two stubborn souls locked in a battle of wills, with no end in sight.

I’ll pause here to confirm—yes, this is my life now. Married to a woman who steals my blankets and accuses me of being a tyrant while I’m just trying to maintain some semblance of order.

As I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d ended up here. Was this some kind of karmic retribution? A punishment for all the things I’d done—or failed to do—in my past?

Whatever it was, one thing was certain: these next three months were going to be the longest of my life.