Winter evenings in New York fell like a curtain—swift and heavy. By five o'clock, the sky outside the NYDLC newsroom was already draped in inky velvet, city lights flickering to life below like fireflies. The glass windows reflected the glow of monitors and half-empty coffee cups, but inside, no one was working.
Everyone was watching the clock.
Phones buzzed quietly. Fingers hovered over keyboards. It was the collective anticipation of escape—the kind that builds just before a long weekend. No one dared move too early, but the tension was palpable.
Then, the office door creaked open.
Heads turned. Conversations cut off mid-word.
Martha, managing editor and professional mood-killer, stepped into the open office space like a judge entering a courtroom. Her heels clicked sharply on the tile as she surveyed the room, her expression unreadable.
"Over the weekend, I want pitch ideas for this year's winter feature series," she said. "No fluff. Real angles. I want proposals on my desk by Monday."
And just like that, she vanished back into her office.
The collective sigh that followed was practically seismic.
At his desk near the back, Aiden Clark allowed himself to relax for the first time all day. Normally, he'd have stayed late to polish a draft or sort through leads, but tonight? Tonight there was a high-profile celebrity van parked outside waiting for him, and the last thing he wanted was his office turning into a viral paparazzi feeding frenzy.
He started packing up, but just then—
"Hey, Aiden! Don't forget trash duty."
The voice came from Damon. The kind of guy who wore office hierarchy like a badge and wielded it like a hammer.
Aiden paused mid-reach.
Around the room, the mood shifted. Quiet murmurs. Tense glances. Damon was flexing his seniority, and everyone knew it.
"Doesn't maintenance handle that Monday mornings?" someone muttered.
"Yeah, we're good for the weekend," another added quickly, trying to smooth it over.
But Damon pressed on, voice louder now. "We let it pile up till Monday, the whole place'll reek. Unless our golden boy's above trash duty now that he married Hollywood royalty?"
A few awkward chuckles. Some pitying looks. Damon's trap was obvious: do the chore, get mocked; refuse, and you're suddenly the arrogant celeb spouse. Either way, he was setting Aiden up to lose.
But Aiden didn't flinch.
"You're absolutely right, Damon," he said smoothly. "I owe everything to your... tireless mentorship."
That earned a few confused looks. Damon blinked, suspicious.
Aiden turned to the room, expression earnest. "Seriously. Damon's sacrifice doesn't get enough credit. Stalling his own career progress just to keep mentoring me? Staying in the same position, year after year? That kind of commitment is rare."
Oof. Clean. Surgical.
The room went still. Then someone behind a monitor choked on their coffee.
Damon's smirk cracked.
Without missing a beat, Aiden collected the trash bins—smiling, graceful, untouchable—and walked out, leaving behind a newsroom filled with stunned silence and one very bitter coworker gripping a garbage can like a stress ball.
"Pfft."
Samantha, across the room, lost it. Laughter burst out of her, and the tension shattered like glass. Around the office, snorts and chuckles bubbled up from behind folders and monitor screens.
He didn't just take out the trash.
He torched it.
Compared to Damon's transparent ego trip, Aiden's clapback had the precision of a scalpel—and the finesse of someone who knew how to weaponize words without ever raising his voice.
By ten minutes past five-thirty, Aiden finally clocked out.
He stepped into the cool evening air and spotted it immediately: a sleek black Mercedes Sprinter idling at the curb, hazards blinking softly against the glow of nearby streetlamps.
And standing beside it?
Valeria Quinn.
No disguise. No shades. No hat. Just her—flawless, poised, and entirely unconcerned about the attention she was drawing.
"Oh my God, is that Valeria Quinn?"
"She's even more stunning in person…"
Murmurs rippled from passersby. Phones came out. Camera shutters clicked.
Valeria didn't shy away. She didn't shield her face or rush back into the vehicle. She simply stood there, owning every second of it, her smile soft and controlled, her posture radiating quiet confidence.
And then—
"Babe!" she called brightly, striding toward him and looping her arm through his like they were a lovesick couple fresh out of a rom-com.
Aiden stiffened. Internally, he screamed.
This was so not in the plan.
He scanned the sidewalk and spotted the dark SUV parked across the street—tinted windows, camera lens glinting from the rear. Paparazzi. Of course.
He stopped resisting.
"Where to?" he asked under his breath, trying to keep his voice from cracking.
"Home, obviously." Her tone was light, her eyes locked on his with almost infuriating charm. "I figured I'd drive my husband home after work. Wife perks."
He exhaled slowly. He was married to an actress in every sense of the word—and she never broke character.
The van door slid shut behind them with a gentle hiss. The moment they pulled into traffic, Aiden noticed the SUV tagging along behind.
Fantastic.
"Didn't you say your shift ended at five-thirty?" Valeria teased, brushing a strand of hair off her shoulder.
"I was taking out the trash," he muttered.
She laughed. "New office hazing ritual?"
"You're the first woman to ever make me late and start a paparazzi chase in the same hour."
"You'll adapt."
He leaned slightly closer, lowering his voice. "Next time, maybe give me a heads-up before posting our marriage license to twelve million followers?"
"Caught you off guard?" she asked, grinning. "Didn't seem like it. I saw your posts. 'Love doesn't need permission'—real poetic."
Great. She'd seen everything.
"That was PR," he said quickly. "I didn't want your fanbase going full riot mode. I figured a little sarcasm might soften the blow."
But as he looked around, frowning, one thing became painfully clear.
"This… isn't the way to my place."
Valeria smiled like she'd just caught him trying to lie on the witness stand.
"Nope. We're going to your new home."
The van coasted through the gates of an upscale Westchester estate. Marble fountains, sculpted hedges, and towering trees lined the private driveway like a fairytale backdrop.
Aiden stared.
He knew this place. Recognized the balcony ironwork and the long driveway bend.
It was her house.
Valeria Quinn's mansion.
His pulse skipped. Was this real? Were they… doing this? Actually living together?
He glanced at her again. She sat calmly beside him, scrolling her phone like they weren't hurtling straight into domestic insanity.
The van came to a smooth stop. He stepped out cautiously, scanning the grand stone steps ahead.
Inside, lights were on. Silhouettes moved behind the curtains.
Wait… guests?
Before he could ask, the front door swung open.
Standing there in heels, arms crossed, and looking like a CEO ready to fire someone mid-sentence—was Gloria Lang.
Aiden blinked.
Then smiled.
Well, well. Small world.
"Valeria," Gloria snapped, "do you have any idea what kind of media storm you've unleashed? What the hell is—"
Her eyes landed on Aiden.
The rage froze. Her brows knitted like storm clouds.
"What is he doing here?"
Aiden shrugged. "I'd love to know too. One minute I'm leaving work, the next I'm being kidnapped by America's sweetheart. Should I call the cops or…?"
Gloria looked like she might combust.
"Valeria, seriously? You brought him here? We've already spent the whole week cleaning up headlines!"
Valeria, completely unfazed, slipped out of her coat and handed it to Ivy, her assistant. She strolled toward the living room like she owned the air itself.
"This is his home now," she called breezily over her shoulder. "You'll get used to it."
Aiden blinked.
His home?
Gloria whipped around to Ivy. "Tell me everything. Now."
Ivy froze mid-coat-hang. "I—I don't know anything! I swear! I've been with her for three years and this is the first time I've ever seen him!"
Gloria stalked forward. "Don't lie to me. I gave you that job. I can take it back."
"I'm not lying!" Ivy stammered. "She never mentioned him. Not once. Then suddenly—bam—they're married?! I'm just as confused as you are!"
Gloria studied her for a long beat, then stepped back slowly. Ivy looked too panicked to be faking.
Which was terrifying.
Even her assistant had no clue where this guy came from?
Gloria turned toward the hall, muttering under her breath, "What the hell has she gotten herself into now…"
Ivy cleared her throat timidly. "Maybe… they met on a dating app?"
Gloria froze mid-step.
For a second, the suggestion just… hung there.
Stupid. Implausible. And yet—just believable enough to cause a migraine.
She turned back around, eyes narrowed, and said what they were all thinking:
"God help us all."