By day, he’s Mr. Armand, the stoic, sharp-tongued lecturer with glasses that glint when he grades too harshly. By night—he’s mine. My husband. My secret.

No one knows that the girl all the guys on campus chase—the one with the smiles, the short skirts, the perfect GPA—is already taken. Married, in fact. And every time a guy tries to flirt with me after class, I can feel his stare. Cold. Burning. Possessive.

He doesn't say a word in public. But when we’re home?

“Did he touch you?” His voice is low, rough, as he yanks me against the door the moment we step into our shared apartment. Glasses tossed somewhere. Hands all over me. “You think it’s funny letting those little boys drool over what’s mine?”

I gasp as his lips crash into mine, his jealousy pouring into every touch, every kiss that marks me like a warning.

“You wore that skirt on purpose, didn’t you?” he growls, unzipping it without waiting for a reply.

I smile against his mouth, whispering, “Maybe I wanted to see you like this…”

His grip tightens, lifting me onto the kitchen counter like I weigh nothing. "Then you'll take responsibility for waking the beast, Mrs. Armand."

And I do. All night.

By morning, I walk into class again—his perfect student.

No one suspects a thing.