"Bro, tell me this isn't a joke—Valeria Quinn is seriously your wife now? I need a selfie. An autograph. My dorm group chat is having a collective meltdown!"
"Dude! You actually locked down a celebrity? If I'm not your best man, we're done. I already picked out a tux. Bridesmaids better be Instagram models—don't let me down!"
Aiden's phone was exploding. Texts. Missed calls. Voicemails. His inbox looked like it had been hit by a tornado of disbelief and fangirling. Former classmates, college buddies, coworkers, even distant cousins he hadn't seen since puberty were crawling out of the woodwork.
The sheer volume of noise was overwhelming—until his phone, overloaded and exhausted, finally gave up and shut itself off.
Blessed silence.
Back at his desk, Aiden plugged it in to recharge and returned to his screen, eyes locked on trending threads like a general scanning battle formations. He wasn't scrolling for entertainment. He was studying. Calculating. Strategizing.
The surprise marriage announcement had spread like a virus. Valeria Quinn, America's platinum-tier sweetheart, marrying a guy with a local news badge and a pig-farming background?
Unreal.
The internet had promptly fractured into two heated, judgmental factions:
Camp A – The Anti-Aiden League
This crew had labeled him a clout-chasing opportunist. A nobody who somehow conned his way into stardom.
"Gold digger."
"Freeloader."
"Soft rice king." (Whatever that meant.)
Camp B – The 'What Was Valeria Thinking?' Contingent
These people were convinced Valeria had lost her mind. Mid-life crisis? Career burnout? Secret bet?
Their consensus: "She could've had anyone. Why him?"
Aiden wasn't offended. He was a journalist—he knew how headlines worked. He could read public perception like a weatherman reads a Doppler radar.
And right now? He was the villain in everyone's favorite soap opera.
But he wasn't just going to sit there and let the narrative shape itself.
Nope.
If people insisted on writing him into a story, he'd make damn sure they got the character right.
Not some fame-chasing parasite. Not a trophy-hunting pushover.
He'd be the quiet, composed husband—the man behind the queen. The one who didn't chase the spotlight, but didn't flinch in it either.
No interviews. No defensive rants. No apologies.
Just a calm presence that made people second-guess their outrage.
Let the noise wear itself out.
Stay low. Grow slow.
Bzzz bzzz bzzz!
The silence shattered. His phone buzzed back to life.
Incoming call: Wife 💍
He blinked. That contact didn't exist before. He certainly hadn't made it.
Only one person could've.
Valeria.
There was a flutter of something—nerves, maybe? Intrigue?
He picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, honey," came her soft, too-sweet voice. "What time do you get off work today?"
He sat up straighter. "Uh… five-thirty. Why?"
"I'm outside. Thought I'd pick up my favorite husband. Felt romantic."
Aiden whipped around, tugged open the blinds. And there it was—a sleek black SUV idling on the curb. Tinted windows. A suited driver.
Not a ride-share.
Definitely celebrity-grade transportation.
"You… you're outside?" he hissed into the phone. "Are you out of your mind? There are paparazzi everywhere—you're blowing up the quiet, respectable narrative I'm trying to build!"
Valeria laughed, breezy and amused. "Wait—you crafted a public image? What is it? The Mysterious Brooding Husband archetype?"
"That's not your concern," Aiden muttered, scanning the floor for eavesdroppers. "Just leave. Please. We can talk somewhere private later."
"Oh, now that's harsh. What if the headlines say I abandoned you at work? 'Newlywed Valeria Quinn leaves husband behind—trouble in paradise?' You know they'll twist anything."
Aiden exhaled hard.
She wasn't wrong. In journalism, perception was reality—and unattended wife at curb was headline gold.
"This is impossible," he grumbled. "I'm trying to keep things under control here."
"You married me, babe. Control left the chat the moment you signed those papers. You want people to respect you? Then act like someone worth noticing."
He fell silent.
Her words hit harder than he wanted to admit.
He had been trying to stay small. Invisible. But small didn't get you anywhere. And quiet wasn't always respectable—it was forgettable.
He glanced at the time: 5:02.
"Wait for me," he said quietly—and hung up.
Back at his desk, Aiden opened Instagram.
His reposted marriage photo had detonated into chaos. Thousands of comments, most of them venomous. Some were begging Valeria to "come to her senses." Others were roasting him like a campfire marshmallow.
But Aiden wasn't here to defend himself.
He was here to flip the script.
If they wanted a villain?
He'd give them one. With style.
Commenter: "Give her back! Valeria doesn't belong with some nobody like you!"
Aiden: "Come take her, then. Just bring a camera—I want to capture your heartbreak in 4K."
Commenter: "You're obviously using her for money."
Aiden: "Why settle for just money? I'm aiming for the yacht."
Commenter: "You? Marry Valeria Quinn? Who even are you?"
Aiden: "She proposed. I was just being polite. You'd do the same."
He even added a new post:
"Honestly? I didn't expect to marry rich and gorgeous either. One coffee, one blackout, and next thing I know—I wake up in a mansion. Envy me properly, folks."
Post.
The reaction was instant. Comment threads caught fire. Some people were furious, others were laughing. But one thing was clear—
He'd stepped into the arena.
BANG!
The office door flung open, crashing against the wall.
Martha, the senior producer, stormed in like a woman possessed.
"Aiden! What the hell are you doing?!"
He looked up with mock innocence. "Just responding to some fan mail. Trying to clear up a few... misconceptions."
Martha's eye twitched. "Clear up—? You're starting comment wars on company time!"
Aiden shrugged. "I kept it classy. No profanity. No insults. Just matching energy—with wit."
She rubbed her temple like it physically hurt. "You represent this network. This isn't your personal TikTok account. You're a journalist. Act like one."
He sighed and nodded, sliding his phone face-down on the desk. "Got it. No posting while on the clock."
But the moment she stormed back into her office?
Phone flipped. Thumb scrolling.
She said no posting. Not no lurking.
The comment section was chaotic. Fans were unhinged. Trolls were frothing. But Aiden?
He was having the time of his life.
Commenter: "You better hope you never cross a street alone."
Aiden: "Aw, thanks for the safety reminder. So thoughtful. ❤️"
Commenter: "Wait 'til she dumps you."
Aiden: "If someone can handle her skincare routine and attitude better than me, I'll hand her over with flowers."
Commenter: "I challenge you to a duel. Central Park. Noon."
Aiden: "Only if I get to slap you with a glove first."
He wasn't trying to win them over.
He was making art.
Digital jabs with the polish of a stand-up comic. Every reply turned the firestorm into a circus—and he was the ringmaster.
They came for blood.
He gave them sass.
And oddly enough?
It worked.