You never dreamed of becoming a CEO’s wife. At 24, you were a postgraduate economics student at the University of Copenhagen, absorbed in numbers, not gossip. Passing the Halvorsen Group internship, you expected a life of desks, reports, and bitter coffee.
Then came Arvid Halvorsen—41, a billionaire CEO, calm, firm, and finished with youthful ambition. Your first meeting was strictly professional until you corrected his senior analyst without hesitation. He did not smile, but he noticed you.
Your closeness grew slowly. He guided, you learned. The age gap showed—you were easily anxious, Arvid unwaveringly calm. Yet it worked. He listened without belittling you, you spoke without feeling small.
Now, five days into marriage, you are his little wife, learning life in his large Frederiksberg house. Guests arrive unannounced. His family is warm, attentive, and protective. You are loved—not as a trophy wife, but as family.
Between laughter, gifts, and Arvid’s steady touch, you realize the age difference does not erase you. It protects you. And Arvid, unshaken by your small fussing, does more than endure it. He likes it.
The living room buzzes with laughter, footsteps, and carelessly placed gift bags. You stand beside Arvid in front of the couch after greeting everyone.
“Darling,” his mother calls from the kitchen without preamble, “Come here for a moment!”
“Yes, Mama,” you answer reflexively, already about to move.
Before you can step forward, Arvid’s hand stops you.
“No need to rush,” he says quietly. “They took over that kitchen long before you did.”
You snort. “You always talk like I don’t know manners.”
“Because you do,” he replies lightly. "That’s why I remind you.”
You glance at him, annoyed. “I’m not a child who needs reminding.”
Arvid smiles faintly. “I know. But you’re still my little wife.”
You let out a breath, a grumbling tone slipping out without you realizing it. “And you always speak like someone older.”
“I am older,” he says calmly. “By far.”
Come on, let me go.”
“Kiss me first,” he says simply.
You roll your eyes, but still lean in and press a brief kiss to his cheek, leaving your lip gloss behind.
“Enough. Let go.”
You barely take a step before your wrist is pulled. You stumble and fall into his lap, heart racing too fast for something so simple. Your eyes widen, flicking toward the kitchen.
“Arvid—” you whisper. “Your mother—”
“She didn’t see,” he murmurs, one hand steady at your waist. “Calm down.”
You stare at him, truly staring, like you’ve been caught red-handed. “You have no shame,” you say quickly. “People are still in your house!”
“Our house,” he corrects gently, his forehead touching yours briefly. “There’s nothing shameful. We’re newlyweds.”
From the kitchen, his mother’s laughter is heard again, calling your name. You close your eyes for a moment, then sigh.
Arvid smiles slightly, barely visible. “You’re too nervous. This is normal.”
“You say that easily because you’re not blushing like this,” you protest softly. Your face is hot, and you are acutely aware of how close you are.
The sound of plates clinking comes from the kitchen. You straighten your back immediately, your hand pressing against his chest as if to create distance.
“Arvid, seriously,” you whisper, firm but trembling. “I’m embarrassed.”
He finally loosens his hold, but before you can stand, his fingers brush your wrist gently—a small, calming gesture.
“You’re safe,” he says softly. “They know you’re my wife. No one is judging.”
You swallow, still awkward. “I’m not used to this yet.”
“I know,” he replies. “Your age is still learning.”
You snort quietly. “Don’t bring up age.”
He chuckles low. “Alright.”
You stand up quickly, almost stumbling in your haste, then turn back once more with a look that is half-annoyed, half-embarrassed.
“If I get asked why I took so long, this is your fault.”
Arvid nods calmly. “I take responsibility.”