CHAPTER 49: A MORNING IN MARRIED CHAOS

Aiden’s POV:

Ah, mornings. They’ve always been my refuge—quiet, disciplined, predictable. No alarms necessary; my body clock has been waking me up at precisely 5:30 AM for years. Today was supposed to be no different, except... I woke up married.

For a blissful moment, I forgot that I wasn’t alone in my room. The peace was shattered when a muffled voice grumbled from somewhere near the couch, "Keep it down."

Right. She was there.

Alexia, my newly minted wife, had taken over the couch after a rather ridiculous debate about sleeping arrangements the night before. She had fallen asleep quickly—complete with light snoring—and I had finally managed to get some rest myself. But now, as I moved around the room to gather my things, she had the audacity to complain.

I bit back a groan. Was she planning to sleep and eat her way through this marriage? It was already clear she had zero sense of discipline. I made a mental note: she needed something productive to do, something to occupy her mind and time. Maybe she could finish her studies or pick up a hobby—anything to keep her from this newfound career as a professional couch potato.

Shaking my head, I grabbed my towel and headed to the bathroom. As I showered, I mentally organized my tasks for the day. I wasn’t going into the office—not after the circus that was yesterday’s wedding. But work doesn’t stop just because you say, "I do." My study at home would have to do.

Feeling refreshed, I stepped out of the bathroom, towel tied around my waist, ready to face whatever minor inconveniences the day might throw at me.

What I wasn’t ready for, however, was Alexia.

There she was, sprawled across my bed like a satisfied house cat, her arms and legs spread as if claiming every corner for herself. The audacity.

It was like talking to a wall—or, in her case, a particularly stubborn, mischievous kitten that enjoyed testing limits. Hadn’t I made it clear last night that she wasn’t allowed on my bed?

Of course, I had. But clearly, Alexia and rules had a loose relationship at best.

I stood there for a moment, towel still damp around my waist, marveling at her gall. She looked so at ease, like she owned the place, which only made it worse.

The woman couldn’t have been more different from me if she’d tried. Where I thrived on structure and order, she seemed to exist purely to test the limits of chaos. But what irked me most wasn’t her defiance—it was how much she seemed to enjoy it.

It wasn’t just her being on the bed; it was the principle of the thing. This wasn’t her bed. This wasn’t her space. And yet, there she was, comfortably snoozing away like she didn’t have a care in the world.

For someone who had supposedly been thrust into this marriage for convenience, she was adapting far too well to the luxury of my home.

I debated my options. Waking her up with a bucket of ice water crossed my mind, but that felt unnecessarily cruel—and frankly, too messy. Dragging her off the bed again was tempting, but my back wasn’t in the mood for round two of that battle.

No, I needed to outthink her. This wasn’t just about the bed anymore; it was about setting a precedent. If I let her get away with this now, what next? Would she start redecorating? Taking over my study? Borrowing my car?

This was a slippery slope, and I wasn’t about to slide down it.

I’d had enough of her antics. If she thought she could commandeer my bed without consequences, she was about to learn otherwise. Quietly, I approached the bed, prepared to hoist her off and deliver a lesson in respect—my way.

The plan? Simple. Carry her to the bathtub, dump her unceremoniously inside, and sprinkle her with cold water until she regretted every life choice that led her to this moment of rebellion.

It was foolproof.

Or so I thought.

As soon as I slid my arms beneath her, she stirred, squirming like a fish caught on a line. "What are you doing?" she shrieked, flailing like I’d just announced her eviction.

"Getting you off my bed," I muttered through gritted teeth, adjusting my grip to prevent her from wriggling free.

That’s when the screaming started.

Oh, she wasn’t just complaining; she was performing. The kind of high-pitched shrieking that could make neighbors think I was committing some heinous crime instead of dealing with a rebellious wife.

"Put me down!" she yelled, kicking her legs wildly.

Her struggle was so ridiculous that I almost laughed—almost. But I held firm. I wasn’t going to let her win.

And then it happened.

In the chaos of her squirming and my attempts to hold onto her without dropping her, my towel—my last shred of dignity—decided to abandon me.

Time seemed to slow as the towel slipped, and instinct took over. I did what any self-respecting man would do in such a moment: I dropped her to grab the towel.

Alexia landed on the floor with an audible thud, her shocked expression quickly morphing into something far worse. Laughter.

Oh, she didn’t just chuckle. No, this was full-blown, uncontrollable, stomach-clutching laughter, the kind that left tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Your... your towel!" she managed between gasps for air, pointing at me as if I wasn’t already aware of my compromised state.

I glared at her, clutching the towel back around my waist. "Glad to see you find this amusing," I muttered, though the corner of my mouth twitched despite my best efforts to stay stoic.

She didn’t stop laughing. If anything, my attempt to recover some dignity only seemed to fuel her amusement.

Standing there, half-dressed with a wife who was practically rolling on the floor laughing, I realized something: this marriage was going to test every ounce of patience I possessed.

I wasn’t sure if I wanted to strangle her, laugh with her, or just walk out of the room and pretend none of this had happened.

Instead, I sighed and leaned against the bedpost, waiting for her to finish her laughing fit. "Done yet?" I asked dryly when she finally started to calm down.

As I secured my towel back in place, I couldn’t help but smirk at the little troublemaker sprawled on the floor, her laughter abruptly dying as realization dawned on her.

"Since you’ve seen me," I said, letting my voice drop into a low, smug tone that I knew would rattle her, "it’s only fair I get a glimpse of you, too."

Her eyes widened to saucers, and for a split second, she was utterly still, like a deer caught in headlights. Then, in the blink of an eye, she scrambled to her feet, bolting from the room as if her life depended on it.

I didn’t even bother hiding my grin. Served her right for laughing at me.

The sound of her hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway, accompanied by a faint, indignant muttering about "perverts" and "jerks." I chuckled softly to myself, the sweet taste of minor victory settling in.

At least now I could finally dress in peace.

I took my time, savoring the tranquility of the moment. After all, with her around, peace seemed to be in short supply. But for now? The room was mine, and the bed? Well, I’d deal with that battle later.

As I walked downstairs, there she was—curled up on one of the kitchen stools, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the elixir of life. Her hair was a tousled mess, her oversized hoodie swallowing her tiny frame. She didn’t even notice me at first, too engrossed in whatever fantasy world her mind had drifted off to.

Food and sleep. Honestly, it was as if I’d married a pet. A grumpy, stubborn, oddly amusing pet.

It was official: she was going to college. If I had to physically drag her to admissions myself, so be it. There was no way I was going to let her loaf around the house like some professional freeloader. No, no, no. She needed structure, purpose, goals—anything that didn’t involve her sprawled on my couch with a bowl of ice cream.

I, on the other hand, had dressed casually for the day. It wasn’t my usual polished, corporate armor, but I couldn’t risk the media spinning some absurd story about how I’d gone to work on the first day of my marriage. The headlines practically wrote themselves: "Timberlake’s Marriage in Trouble: Billionaire Spotted at Work Just Hours After Tying the Knot!"

No, thanks. I had enough on my plate without public scrutiny blowing things out of proportion. For now, appearances were everything.

But appearances didn’t solve the immediate problem standing (or slouching) in my kitchen. She took a lazy sip of her coffee and finally glanced up, giving me a look that said, What now?

Oh, she was in for a rude awakening. College-bound Alexia, here we come.