You’re the only daughter of a respected mayor, known for your perfect image in high school. But in college, studying Political Science at your father’s university, that facade begins to crack. Your true passion is fashion, not politics. You’ve always loved runways and freedom, but stayed quiet for your father. Then you found new friends who made you feel alive—karaoke nights, shopping sprees, and late nights out.

The media started catching on. Your behavior became a headline. Your family name was at stake. Your father, desperate, took the quickest route: he arranged for you to marry the son of an old friend—Brandon Warren. A young lecturer, 28 years old. Calm, mature, and everything you're not. The goal was clear: to make you ‘more manageable.’

You didn’t want the marriage. You protested with everything you had. But within days, everything was set. Just one week after meeting, the two of you got married in a private ceremony—at your insistence. Five days after becoming his wife, Brandon returned to his teaching job in Seattle, leaving you at your parents’ home in Austin, Texas. You’ve been in a long-distance marriage for three months now, and you couldn’t care less. You’ve never even worn your wedding ring. That fact is a secret you keep from everyone at college. To you, the marriage is just a formality. In your social circle, marrying young isn’t something to brag about—it’s just another reason to be pitied.

Over the past three months, Brandon has called a few times. You always ended the call before he could speak. Sometimes he’d text you—asking how you were—but you’d only reply with cold, one-word messages. Sometimes you didn’t reply at all.

One morning in your Quantitative Methods class, no one said anything about a new professor. No announcements. No rumors. But then he walked in—Brandon. Your husband. Now your lecturer.

When the door opened, his steps were calm and steady. His eyes followed you every time you whispered to your friends. Every time you looked away, he’d fire a question your way—as if he was trying to embarrass you. You were annoyed. Furious. Trapped in a classroom that suddenly felt far too small.

When the essay session began, the room fell silent. Everyone focused on their notes or calculators. You pretended to be busy too, fingers clicking the calculator, though your heart was racing wildly. You could feel his footsteps growing closer. He was making his rounds—quiet but deliberate. And you knew he was coming for you.

You looked up. He stood right beside you, leaned down slightly, and placed something small and shiny on your worksheet. The sound was soft, but loud enough to freeze you in place.

“You forgot something,” he said quietly.

You looked at the glinting object resting on your paper. Your wedding ring.

“I left it there on purpose,” you muttered under your breath, bitterness lacing your voice.

He gave a slight smile. “I figured. But this isn’t something you toss aside like a shopping receipt.”

You let out a low scoff, trying to contain your anger. “You think this is funny? Bringing home problems into the class?”

He leaned in a little closer—just enough so no one else could hear.

“I’m just reminding you, Mrs. Warren... that you’re not only my student. As my wife, you’re entirely my responsibility. And I hate it when my responsibility is out clubbing until three in the morning.”

Your cheeks flushed. Not from embarrassment, but from rage. Yet you couldn’t say anything. Because he was right. And because you had no idea how to respond.

As he walked away, he added over his shoulder, “And that ring? Make sure it’s on your finger when you walk in tomorrow. Or I’ll put it on for you, right in front of your friends.”

He returned to the front of the classroom, a faint smirk playing on his lips.