(Jay's POV)
The sun was definitely mocking me. Usually, Keifer is a human alarm clock—all crisp linens and "good morning, wifey"—but today? Silence.
I squinted at the clock. 8:15 AM. Our lecture started at 9:00."MARK KEIFER WATSON, WAKE UP!" I screamed, literally belly-flopping onto him.
Keifer jolted awake, his hair a majestic mess. "What? Is there a fire?"
"Worse! We're late!"The next twenty minutes were pure, unadulterated chaos. We were sprinting through our house like contestants on a game show.
I was shouting about missing socks while Keifer was frantically trying to find his car keys."Shower! Now! Save time!" Keifer yelled, grabbing my hand and hauling me toward the bathroom.
It wasn't a romantic, slow-motion bath like our first day. It was a tactical mission. We were bumping elbows, accidentally getting soap in each other's eyes, and shouting "Move!" every five seconds.
I was trying to rinse shampoo out while Keifer was already half-shaving. We looked like a two-person circus act, but somehow, we managed to get dressed and sprint to the car.
We slid into our seats at LSE at 8:59 AM, lungs burning. We looked at each other—my hair was slightly damp, and his tie was a bit crooked—and we just burst out laughing. People were staring, but we couldn't stop."We actually made it," I wheezed.
The laughter died down when our professor walked in, clutching a stack of papers. The surprise quiz results. My heart did a nervous little dance.
"Excellent work overall," the professor said.
"First place, with a perfect 50 out of 50... Mr. Watson." My jaw-dropped. Keifer leaned back, looking effortlessly cool again.
"Naturally," he whispered.
"Second place, with a very impressive 42 out of 50... Ms. Mariano."I froze. 42? Me? I stared at the paper like it was written in an alien language.
"No way," I muttered. "I was sure I failed that."Keifer leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "See that? That's the 'fiancé effect,' Jay, My genius is rubbing off on you."
"Shut up!" I giggled, shoving his shoulder, though I secretly beamed. (A girl named Anne got 3rd with a 35, but I was too busy reeling from my own success to care).
After lectures, we headed home, the adrenaline finally fading. As I was flopping onto the sofa, Keifer walked over, looking suspicious.
He wasn't in his "student" hoodie anymore; he had that "CEO planning a takeover" look in his eyes."Change of plans, Jay. No naps," he said, pulling me up.
"I've booked us in for something special tonight. We're going to F1 Drive at the stadium. I need to see if your 42/50 brain can handle a racing simulator."
"Oh, it's on," I challenged. "But if I win, you're buying me the biggest hot chocolate in London."
"Deal," he smirked. "Get ready, Jay wifey . I don't go easy on rivals—even beautiful ones."
"Ready to lose, wifey?" Keifer smirked, checking his racing gloves as we stepped into the high-tech neon glow of F1 DRIVE London.
My heart did that annoying little flip it always does when he uses that nickname. We weren't married—barely engaged for a few months—but "wifey" was his favorite way to remind me that I was already his whole world.
"In your dreams, Watson," I shot back, adjusting my helmet. "I've got that 42/50 brain power fueling me today. You're going down."
The vibe at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium was electric. We weren't just in some dusty go-kart shed; these were bespoke F1-inspired karts with actual DRS technology and LED steering wheels that showed our live positions.
As the lights flashed from red to green, the roar of the "engine" (actually immersive audio taken from Lewis Hamilton's car) blasted in my ears. I floored it.
The First Turn: Keifer took the lead immediately, his billionaire "CEO" focus shifting into "Pro Driver" mode. He was weaving through the 17 turns of the 500m track like he was born there.
The Tease: Every time I got close, I could hear him through the team radio. "Nice try, wifey! Use your boost!"
.The Move: On the final lap, I hit the DRS button on a straightaway. I felt the surge of speed and zipped right past his rear tire.
The Finish: I crossed the line a hair's breadth before him. I actually screamed with joy.
"Check the board, 'Pro'!" I cheered, hopping out of the kart and pointing at the screen. My name was at the top.Keifer took off his helmet, sweat dampening his hair, and he was wearing the most prideful, lopsided grin.
He walked over, pulled me into a side-hug, and kissed my temple. "Fair play. You're a menace behind the wheel, wifey."
"And you," I poked his chest, "owe me a hot chocolate. The biggest, messiest one in London."
He didn't even argue. He led me back to the car, and we drove toward Fitzrovia. He'd already scouted the perfect spot: Italian Bear Chocolate.
When our drinks arrived, I gasped. They weren't just cups of cocoa; they were works of art with thick, melted dark, milk, and white chocolate literally overflowing and running down the sides of the mugs.
"This is the 'fiancé effect' I can get used to," I whispered, licking a bit of chocolate off my thumb.
Keifer watched me, his eyes dark and soft in the cafe's dim light. "Get used to it, wifey. I plan on being the one who buys your hot chocolate for the next eighty years."
After the chocolate coma subsided, I thought we were heading home to rot on the couch. I was already dreaming of my pajamas. But Keifer? Oh, no. Mark Keifer Watson doesn't do "low-key" when he's in a mood.
"Change of plans, wifey," he said, steering the car away from our neighborhood."Keifer, I'm literally wearing leggings and a hoodie with a chocolate stain on it," I protested.
He just smirked, pulled over at a quiet spot, and reached into the back seat. He pulled out a garment bag and a box that looked like it cost more than my entire tuition.
"I planned ahead. Go change in the back. I'll stand guard."
I opened the bag and nearly choked. It was a lavender silk slip dress—my 2nd favorite color after blue —that felt like literal water in my hands.
There were matching silver heels and even a pair of diamond studs."You're insane," I whispered, but I scrambled into the back to change.
Five minutes later, I emerged feeling like a princess. Keifer had somehow managed to swap his casual sweater for a charcoal-grey tailored suit that made him look like he stepped off the cover of GQ.
"Breathtaking ," he murmured, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. "Now, let's do this properly."
He took me to this insane rooftop restaurant overlooking the Thames. The first surprise? He'd booked the entire balcony just for us. No crowds, just the London skyline and a private violinist playing a soft melody.
He didn't just pull out my chair; he waited until I was perfectly settled before tucking it in and kissing the top of my head.
He had already ordered my favorite appetizers so I wouldn't have to wait, knowing my "massive appetite" was probably kicking in again.
When the breeze picked up, he signaled the waiter who immediately brought over a heated pashmina for my shoulders before I could even shiver.The dinner was magic. We laughed about the morning's chaotic shower sprint and my racing victory. I felt so bold and happy. But then, as we stood up to leave, my clumsy nature decided to make a guest appearance. We went downstairs to leave and
Clatter.
My tiny beaded purse slipped off the table and hit the floor. Without thinking, I bent down quickly to grab it. Because the dress was a cowl-neck style, it draped down a bit too much as I leaned over.
In a split second, I felt a shadow tower over me.Before I could even reach the purse, Keifer was already on the ground. He didn't just pick it up; he positioned his large frame directly in front of me, blocking the view of a group of guys at a nearby table who had definitely been leaning in to get a look.
In one fluid, terrifyingly smooth motion, he stood up, whipped off his suit jacket, and wrapped it firmly around my shoulders.
He pulled the lapels tight at my chest, his hands lingering there for a second to make sure I was covered. Then, his entire vibe changed. The "sweet fiancé" was gone. He draped his arm around my waist, pulling me flush against his side, and turned his head.
He didn't say a word, but he gave those men a death stare so cold it could have frozen the Thames. His jaw was set, and his eyes were narrowed—full "Alpha CEO" mode.
The guys at the table immediately looked down at their plates, suddenly very interested in their steak.
"Let's go, Jay," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave.
He didn't let go of my waist the whole way out. Once we were back in the safety of the car, the tension left his shoulders. He leaned over, unbuckled my seatbelt just to pull me into a deep, lingering kiss.
"You okay?" he asked softly, his thumb brushing my cheek.
"I'm fine," I giggled, feeling safe again.
"But I think you scared those poor guys for life."
"Good," he grumbled, starting the engine. "Nobody looks at my wifey like that."
Keifer didn't drive straight home. Instead, he took a turn toward the river, his hand resting firmly on my thigh as if he still needed to make sure I was right there next to him.
"One more stop," he said, his voice back to that smooth, chocolatey tone I loved. "Since we're already dressed for the part."
He parked near Tower Bridge. It was late, and the usual swarm of tourists had thinned out, leaving the bridge glowing in a brilliant, regal blue against the black London sky.
The air was crisp, but I was still cocooned in his oversized suit jacket, which smelled exactly like him—sandalwood and expensive success.
As we walked toward the edge of the water, he realized the pavement was a bit uneven. Without a word, he tucked my arm into his and slowed his pace to match my heels, basically guiding me so I wouldn't trip and ruin the "elegant" vibe I was trying to maintain.
We stopped at a quiet spot on the pier, right under the shadow of the bridge. The moon was reflecting off the ripples of the Thames, making everything look like a movie scene.
"Jay," he said, turning me to face him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. "I know we already have the rings, and we're already 'us'... but I realized I never gave you a proper London welcome."
He pulled out a delicate silver anklet with a tiny, shimmering lavender stone that matched my dress perfectly.
"Keifer, stop," I whispered, feeling my heart melt into a puddle. "You've already done so much today."
"I told you," he murmured, kneeling down on one knee right there on the cold stone—not to propose, but just to clasp the jewelry around my ankle. "I don't do 'enough' when it comes to you."
He stood back up and pulled me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me so tightly I felt like the only girl in the world. We stood there for a long time, just watching the bridge lights flicker.
"You know," I teased, looking up at him. "Between the 42/50 test score, the F1 racing, and now this... I think the 'fiancé effect' is actually just you spoiling me so much I forget how to function."
He laughed, a deep, rich sound that vibrated against my ribs. "That's the plan, wifey. Total dependency. You're never getting away from me."
He leaned down for a kiss that tasted like the cool night air and sweet promises. It was the perfect end to our first official London date.But of course, the universe couldn't let us stay in a romance movie forever. As we finally pulled into our driveway twenty minutes later, our headlights hit something massive sitting right in front of our front door.
"Is that... a wooden crate?" I asked, squinting.Keifer sighed, his "CEO" patience already wearing thin. "It looks like air-freight. From the Philippines."
We got out of the car and walked up to it. Attached to the top was a neon-pink post-it note with aggressive handwriting:
"SHE NEEDS VITAMINS, KEIFER! DON'T LET THEM GET RIPE ALL AT ONCE. - ANGELO"
I pried the lid open slightly. The smell hit me instantly. "Oh my god," I gasped. "It's about eighty pounds of premium mangoes."
Keifer stared at the mountain of fruit, then at his expensive suit, then back at the mangoes. "Your brother is a lunatic, Jay. How are we supposed to eat eighty pounds of mangoes?"
"Well," I said, grabbing one and handing it to him. "Better get started, Watson. It's the 'brother-in-law' effect."
I looked at the mountain of gold sitting in our kitchen and then at Keifer, who was still wearing his $3,000 suit trousers with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up.
We decide to make some dishes out of those mangoes and suddenly Keifer's phone rang.
"Honey, I have to take this. It's the New York office, and they're being dramatic," Keifer said, kissing my forehead as his phone buzzed incessantly.
He pointed a warning finger at me. "Do not start with the mangoes yet. I'll be back in ten minutes, and we'll do it together. Stay. Put."
I gave him my most innocent, wide-eyed look. "Of course, Keifer. I'll just… sit here. Like a statue."
The second the door clicked shut, I was off the barstool."Ten minutes is plenty of time for a head start!" I whispered to the mountain of mangoes.
I decided I was going to make Mango Lava Cakes. How hard could it be? You just mix stuff and put it in the oven, right?
The Chaos Timeline:
Minute 2: I tried to pick the mangoes. Apparently, they are slippery little devils. One squirted right out of my hand, did a triple backflip, and landed squarely in my hair. "Okay, tropical hair mask. Natural," I muttered, wiping pulp off my forehead.
Minute 5: I realized the recipe called for "sifted" flour. I didn't have a sifter, so I used a mesh colander and shook it like I was at a rave. A white mushroom cloud erupted. I couldn't see the sink. I couldn't see the floor. I was a ghost.
Minute 8: I tried to use the giant industrial blender for the puree. I forgot to put the lid on tight. Big mistake. A golden geyser of mango juice shot straight up, coating the underside of our designer cabinets and dripping onto my nose.
Minute 10: I was standing in the middle of a flour-and-mango warzone, trying to scrape "batter" (which looked more like yellow play-dough) off my elbows.
The door opened.
"Okay, wifey, I'm—" Keifer froze.
He stayed in the doorway, his expensive phone still in his hand, staring at the kitchen. There was flour on the ceiling. There was mango puree on the fridge. And then there was me—covered in white powder, hair sticky with fruit, holding a wooden spoon like a weapon.
Keifer let out a slow, long sigh that turned into a low chuckle. He tucked his phone away and walked over, stepping carefully over a puddle of juice.
"A naughty and mischievous wife I got, thanks to fate," he teased, his eyes dancing with amusement.
He reached out, wiped a smudge of flour off my cheek, and licked his finger. "Too much salt in the batter, by the way."
"I was trying to be helpful!" I squeaked, looking at the disaster."You were trying to be a menace," he laughed, pulling me into a hug despite the mess.
"Come on, disaster-chef. Let's clean this up before the ants start a colony."
First, he helped me get the worst of the flour off, making sure to tease me by 'dusting' me off a little too vigorously. Once the kitchen was sparkling again, the "CEO" disappeared and "Chef Keifer" took over.
I watched him move with this effortless grace. He told me he'd learned to cook from his mother when he was just a little boy, long before she passed away.
It was the one thing that made him look soft and vulnerable, not just powerful."Watch, Jay," he said softly, pulling me close to his side. "The trick to the Mango Ice Cream is the aeration."
He guided my hand as we whisked the cream together, teaching me how to fold in the fresh mango puree without deflating it.
He was a patient teacher, even when I accidentally splashed him. We didn't stop at ice cream; we made Mango Sticky Rice and even some Mango Chili Salsa for later.
"You're actually really good at this," I murmured, leaning my head on his shoulder as the ice cream churned in the machine.
"I had a good teacher," he said, his voice dropping to that sweet, intimate level. He looked at me, his eyes softening. "And now I have a very messy, very cute student to pass the secrets to."
He leaned down, and for a second, I thought he was going for a romantic kiss—until he swiped a bit of cold ice cream onto my nose.
"Hey!" I laughed, reaching for the bowl to retaliate."Payback for the flour bomb, wifey!"
We were sitting on the kitchen island, legs swinging, eating our homemade mango ice cream straight from the bowl. It was finally quiet, the kind of peaceful London night where you can almost hear the city breathing.
"Wait," Keifer said, jumping down. "I have something to show you. I think I still have her old book."
He disappeared into the pantry and came back clutching a worn, leather-bound notebook. The edges were frayed, and the pages were yellowed with time and stained with old splashes of vanilla and oil.
"My mother's," he whispered, his eyes softening as he flipped through the handwritten pages. "She used to hide notes for me in here when I was a kid."
He stopped at the very back of the book, where a loose, cream-colored envelope was tucked into a hidden pocket in the binding.
His breath hitched. "I've never seen this one."With slightly trembling hands, Keifer opened it. I leaned in close, resting my chin on his shoulder. The handwriting was elegant and looping—a mother's touch preserved in ink.
"To my dearest Keifer ," it began. "If you are reading this, you are likely a man now, and I hope you are still as kind as the boy who used to help me peel peaches. I'm leaving this here because I know one day you'll come back to these recipes when you find the person you want to cook for. Keifer , when you find her, don't just give her your world—give her your time. Feed her well, laugh at the messes, and remember that love is the only ingredient you can't measure. I am already so proud of the husband I know you will be."
The kitchen went completely silent. Keifer didn't move for a long moment, his thumb tracing his mother's signature at the bottom. I felt a lump in my throat. The powerful, "billionaire CEO" Keifer was gone; he was just a son who missed his mom.
"She knew," I whispered, squeezing his arm. "She knew you'd find someone who would make a total mess of your kitchen."
Keifer let out a shaky laugh, folding the letter carefully and tucking it back into the book. He turned to me, his eyes shimmering with a mix of sadness and absolute devotion.
He pulled me into his lap, burying his face in the crook of my neck."She would have loved you, Jay," he murmured against my skin. "She probably would have cheered you on while you were exploding the flour."
"Oh, definitely," I giggled, stroking his hair. "We would have teamed up against you."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, a playful, mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Don't get ahead of yourself, wifey. Just because you have my mother's blessing doesn't mean you're off the hook for the washing up."
"Honey, I'm the 'idea' person," I said with a grin. "The 'execution' and the 'cleaning' fall under the CEO's job description."
"Is that so?" he challenged, his hands moving to my waist to tickle me. "I think the 'fiancé effect' needs to include some discipline."
"Discipline, huh?" I giggled, dodging his tickle attack and grabbing the leather-bound book.
"How about we negotiate? You show me the embarrassing baby photos hidden in these pages, and I'll consider doing the drying."
Keifer groaned, but there was a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips. He hopped off the counter and led me over to the velvet sofa in the living room. He reached into the bottom shelf of the coffee table and pulled out a heavy, dust-covered album that looked even older than the recipe book.
"Prepare yourself, Jay," he warned, sitting close enough that our shoulders were glued together. "I wasn't always this polished."
He flipped the first page, and I let out a loud, dramatic gasp. "Oh. My. God. Keifer!"
There was a photo of a five-year-old Mark Keifer Watson, wearing oversized dinosaur pajamas, his face absolutely smeared with chocolate cake, and—the best part—he was missing both front teeth.
He looked like a tiny, chaotic version of the man sitting next to me."Look at those cheeks!" I squealed, poking the photo.
"Where did that kid go? Who is this serious CEO I'm engaged to?"
"He's still here," Keifer muttered, though his ears were turning a lovely shade of pink. "He just traded the dinosaur PJs for tailor-made suits."
As we flipped through, the mood shifted from funny to deeply sweet. We saw photos of his mother, a woman with the same kind eyes as Keifer, teaching him how to stir a pot or standing proudly next to him on his first day of school.
In every picture, she was looking at him like he was her entire universe."You have her smile," I said softly, tracing the photo of them at a park.
Keifer went quiet for a second, his arm tightening around my waist. "I used to look at these alone and just feel the gap she left. But sitting here with you… it feels like the circle is closing. Like she's finally meeting you through these pages."
He turned to a page near the end. It was a photo of him as a teenager, looking broody and handsome, staring out at the skyline.
"I remember that day," he said. "I told myself I'd build an empire so I'd never feel helpless again. But I forgot that an empire is pretty lonely if you're the only one in the castle."
He turned his head, his nose brushing mine. "Thanks for moving into my castle, wifey. Even if you do bring flour bombs and eighty pounds of mangoes with you."
"I'm the interior decorator," I whispered, leaning in. "I specialize in making cold castles feel like homes."The "fiancé effect" was in full force—not the teasing kind, but the deep, soul-level kind. We stayed like that for hours, lost in his past while building our future, until the London moon was high and the mango ice cream was a distant, sweet memory.
After the emotional weight of reading his mother's letter, the air in the house felt heavy—sweet, but heavy.
I knew Keifer needed a distraction from being the "Perfect CEO" or the "Grieving Son." He needed to just be Keifer .
"Stay here," I commanded, pointing a finger at him. "Do not move. If I hear a single boardroom email notification, I'm throwing your phone into the Thames."
"Jay, what are you—"
"Shh! CEO-mode is offline. Wifey-mode is in control."
I scrambled upstairs and raided the linen closet. I grabbed the most expensive, high-thread-count silk sheets Keifer owned, every plush velvet pillow from the guest rooms, and a tangled mess of fairy lights I'd found in a drawer.
The Construction Phase:
It was a structural nightmare. I was tying silk ribbons to the legs of the heavy dining table and draping sheets over the backs of high-end armchairs. I dragged our massive mattress topper into the center of the living room and surrounded it with a wall of fluffy duvets.
When I finally finished, the "tent" was a shimmering, glowing fortress of comfort in the middle of our minimalist living room.
"Okay, honey! You can come in now!" I yelled.
Keifer walked in, still in his unbuttoned white shirt and trousers, and stopped dead. He looked at the sheet-fort, then at me—peeking out from a gap in the silk with a bowl of the leftover mango ice cream.
"You turned our designer living room into a campsite," he said, his voice dropping into that amused, low rumble."I turned it into a sanctuary," I corrected.
"Get in here. Shoes off. Tie off. Serious face off." The Inside Vibe: Keifer crawled inside, and the space immediately felt smaller and warmer. The fairy lights reflected off the silk ceiling like tiny stars. I had the TV positioned right at the entrance, playing an old, cheesy 90s cartoon he'd mentioned loving as a kid.
"This is ridiculous," he murmured, but he immediately floored himself next to me, resting his head on a pile of pillows.
"It's the 'fiancé effect,' Keifer. You're legally required to enjoy this."
The Night Shift:We spent hours in our little silk bubble. We didn't talk about LSE, or his company, or the wedding. We just ate mango ice cream and argued over which cartoon character was the best.
Eventually, the sugar crash hit. Keifer, the man who usually sleeps in a perfectly straight line like he's in a coffin, was completely sprawled out.
His head ended up in my lap, his breathing deep and steady. I started absentmindedly running my fingers through his hair, braiding tiny, messy sections just to see if he'd wake up.
He didn't. He just let out a soft sigh and nudged his face closer to my stomach, looking more peaceful than I'd ever seen him."You're a real sap, Mark Keifer Watson," I whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead.
He stirred slightly, his eyes still closed, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Only for you, wifey... only for you."