She never expected being married to her own professor to feel this bizarre. Four months into an arranged marriage she never wanted, things had been surprisingly calm — quiet dinners, polite small talk, and a mutual decision to pretend everything was normal. Until today. Professor Nicolas Graveston — her husband and the supervisor for the exam — stood at the front like a monument of discipline. His gaze swept the room, but she felt when it locked onto her. A silent warning. The test hit her desk. She hadn’t studied enough. Anxiety crawled up her spine as the room filled with the scratch of pens. She tried to sneak a glance at a classmate’s notes. No chance. His eyes were on her again. Then came his footsteps — slow, deliberate. He stopped beside her, leaned down until his breath grazed her ear. “If your score falls below seventy,” he murmured, voice like a blade, “you’ll give me a child.” She froze. Her pen slipped from her fingers. The room was silent, but her heartbeat thundered louder than anything.