My Stiff Professor Was Her Model

Lately, my husband had turned into a peacock. Elvis, a notoriously austere university professor of biochemistry, had suddenly developed an appetite for self-reinvention. He was styling his hair with pomade, ordering bespoke suits, and practically living at the gym. At night, he would come to bed with an uncharacteristic, almost frantic hunger, demanding intimacy as if checking off an urgent quota. Fingering the platinum band on my left hand, I couldn’t help but wonder: after four years of marriage, had my straight-laced academic finally seen the light? My best friend saw right through it. "Isn’t that fresh-faced college kid still hovering around your office after you pulled him out of the lake?" she asked over lunch. "Elvis's marking his territory. He’s terrified someone’s going to steal you away." It sounded plausible. I’d suffered from a savior complex since childhood. The people I’d pulled out of ditches, literal and metaphorical, could have lined an entire city block. Just last month, I’d jumped into a lake during a weekend retreat to drag an unconscious undergraduate to shore. The boy had tracked down my corporate office with a bouquet of lilies, and Elvis had happened to walk in at that exact moment. So, was this sudden surge of vanity just jealousy? That afternoon, I left the office early, intending to stop by his campus lab and clear the air. As I walked down the trendy boutique strip two blocks from the university, a male model in the window of a newly opened streetwear store caught my eye. He wore an oversized cream hoodie layered over distressed denim, paired with matte-black sunglasses. He was undeniably striking. I caught myself thinking how good Elvis would look in something like that. But whenever I tried to nudge him toward contemporary fashion, he would wrinkle his nose, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses, and dismiss it as vulgar and juvenile. Beside the window display, a girl with pastel-pink hair was chattering into a ring light mounted on a tripod. "Alright, besties! That wraps today’s livestream. Same time tomorrow at three sharp!" The moment she ended the broadcast, the girl turned around, slipped her hands under the male model’s hoodie, and traced the hard contour of his abs. She giggled, tilting her chin up. "Look at you, baby. All that gym time is definitely paying off." The model’s ears flushed pink. "Stop it. People are looking." A second later, he slid off the sunglasses. The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen. That face. Who else could it possibly be but Elvis? … The three o’clock sun beat down relentlessly. To drum up foot traffic, the pink-haired girl stepped out onto the sidewalk, handing out promotional flyers with practiced charm. "Grand opening today! Twenty percent off everything in store!" Her neon hair gleamed like spun sugar in the daylight, her smile impossibly sweet. Within thirty minutes, a small crowd of young shoppers had gathered. She pulled Elvis along, having him model jackets and recommend sizes to the customers. The cash register chimed continuously. Elvis had the height, the sharp jawline, and the lean build to pull off high-end streetwear. Several young women blushed as they paid, lingering to ask for his Instagram handle. Each time, the girl stepped in, smiling brightly as she looped her arm through his. "Sorry, ladies! This model is my personal collection." "Strictly off the market." Elvis didn’t pull away. He merely smiled—a soft, indulgent grin—and reached out to affectionately ruffle her pastel hair. I stood frozen in the deep shadow of an awning across the street. My chest constricted until I couldn’t draw a full breath. He hated having his hair touched, and he certainly never touched mine. "We’re grown adults, Vivien," he had told me whenever I leaned into him on the sofa. "Affection doesn’t need to be so performative and childish." It wasn’t childish to him. It was simply a privilege reserved for someone else. Inside the glass-fronted shop, Elvis expertly packed shopping bags, checked inventory tags, and suggested color pairings. At one point, he held a forest-green bomber jacket against his chest, leaning down toward the girl with a coy, playful tilt of his head. "Does this look good on me? Am I hotter than that guy who just bought the cargos?" His tone was teasing, boyish, almost desperate for validation. It was entirely alien. In our four years of marriage, he had never once asked if he looked handsome. Whenever I complimented his tailored shirts, he offered only a flat, preoccupied hum without lifting his eyes from his academic journals. They say a man dresses up for the one who holds his heart. I had foolishly believed his recent transformation meant our marriage was finally deepening, that my opinions were beginning to matter. Now, I could only mock myself for playing the fool. The girl gave a melodic laugh, grabbed his collar, and pulled him down. Shielded from the customers’ view by a clothing rack, she planted a lingering kiss squarely on his lips. "Of course you’re the hottest. You’re the prettiest boy in the world." Elvis’s cheeks flushed crimson. My mind violently flashed back to our bedroom. In our rare moments of intimacy, he had always recoiled from kissing. "The human mouth harbors over seven hundred species of bacteria," he had stated once, his voice clinical, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Saliva carries millions of microbes per milliliter. Vivien, there are plenty of ways to be intimate. I simply don’t prefer that one." My fingernails dug into my palms until the skin nearly broke. The cognitive dissonance was so overwhelming that for a split second, I wondered if I was losing my mind. Was this really the same man? I pushed open the heavy glass door and stepped inside. "Welcome to—" Elvis began, the residue of that tender smile still lingering on his lips as he turned to greet the new customer. The smile evaporated. His face went chalk-white. Any lingering doubt shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. A bucket of ice water seemed to dump directly into my chest, freezing every organ in place. The pink-haired girl, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature, skipped over warmly. "Hi there! Welcome in! Are you shopping for yourself, or looking for something for your man?" My voice emerged smooth, level, and terrifyingly calm. "For my husband." "Oh, fun!" she chirped, gesturing around the racks. "What’s his build and general style like?" I slowly shifted my gaze to Elvis, pointing a manicured finger directly at him. "Just like him." "Tall, athletic build, handsome. Except he usually only wears stiff, boring suits." Elvis stood paralyzed, his jaw locked tight. The girl clapped her hands together, slipping her hand naturally onto Elvis’s forearm. "Oh, perfect! With his frame, literally anything in this store will look amazing on him. Honestly, my boyfriend was the exact same way—he lived in formal wear until I finally convinced him to step out of his comfort zone. Men, right? You can't let them have their way all the time." "You're entirely right," I replied, my smile immaculate and razor-sharp. "Give them an inch, and you never know what they’re doing behind your back." The girl caught the edge in my voice and gave an awkward little chuckle, quickly steering the conversation back to business. "Tell you what, let me have him try on a few curated looks for you!" Over the next twenty minutes, Elvis changed into seven different outfits. A thin sheen of sweat formed across his temples and the bridge of his nose. The girl hovered around him with a tissue, dabbing at his forehead with genuine tenderness. "So, what do you think? He’s tried on almost half the line. Any favorites?" I crossed my legs on the velvet lounge sofa, resting my chin on my hand. "Not really." "My husband has exceptionally high standards. None of these look like quality to me." The girl’s youthful patience wore thin, a flash of irritation crossing her brow. "We’ve followed all your specifications, ma’am. He can’t just keep changing indefinitely—" Elvis immediately caught her wrist, cutting her off in a hurried, soothing tone. "It’s fine, Maisie. The customer wants to see the inventory, so let her look. I’m just going to the back for a glass of water." He turned to walk away. I raised my eyes, extending one long leg to block the narrow aisle between the racks. "I haven't dismissed you yet. Who said you could leave for water?" Maisie finally sensed the hostile undercurrent. Her gaze darted between us, her brow furrowing in suspicion. "Wait... do you two know each other?" Elvis, who had remained tight-lipped the entire time, blurted out instantly, "No. We don't." His eyes widened in a frantic, silent plea, begging me with every ounce of his being not to speak. It was almost comical. Since I’d walked into the store, he hadn’t had the spine to look me in the eye. Now, he looked as if he were ready to drop to his knees and beg. I let out a soft, dry laugh. "No, we don't know each other." "He just bears an uncanny resemblance to a pathetic coward I know." A dull, thudding ache settled behind my ribs. I stood up, smoothing the creases of my skirt. "I won't be buying anything. The fabric feels cheap." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Elvis’s shoulders sag in profound relief. I didn't look back as I pushed through the door into the blinding afternoon sun, though Maisie’s indignant, muffled complaints drifted after me: "Who does she think she is, treating you like that? What a miserable woman!" The harsh sunlight made my eyes sting. Five years together, and I had never truly known the man sleeping beside me. Within an hour, my private security team pulled the street’s high-definition surveillance logs. The timeline was sickeningly clear. Elvis’s sudden lifestyle shift began the exact day that boutique held its soft opening. Every afternoon, when he claimed he was going to the athletic club—"If I lose my abs, what if you stop finding me attractive, Viv?"—it was a lie. He was moonlighting as a boutique clerk and fit model for Maisie. Every evening, when he returned home smelling freshly washed and said, "I showered at the gym so you wouldn't have to deal with the sweat," it was another lie. He had simply showered in the boutique’s private back room after sweating under the studio lights, desperate to wash away any traces before facing me. The thought of him coming home each night, coated in the scent of an unfamiliar body wash, pulling me into bed under the guise of newfound passion... it made my stomach churn with violent, visceral disgust. ... When Elvis returned home that evening, the living room was dark save for a single desk lamp. I tapped the glossy black-and-white surveillance stills laid out across the mahogany table. "Explain this, Elvis." I leaned back in the armchair, my voice devoid of warmth. Standing before the desk, he had already slipped back into the skin of the cool, detached academic. A crisp white dress shirt, a navy silk tie, pressed charcoal trousers, and his gold-rimmed glasses resting precisely on his nose. The vibrant, youthfully arrogant man from the boutique felt like a hallucination. The man in front of me coldly pushed up his glasses by the bridge. "Vivien, stop acting like the victim." "Maisie and I have history that predates you. Our families arranged our engagement back home long before I ever met you." "If we’re being technical about who crossed a line—you were the interloper." I stood up so abruptly that my chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. The composure I had maintained all afternoon snapped. I stared at him, incredulous, the fury in my chest roaring to the surface. "I’m the other woman? Elvis, is our marriage certificate a joke to you?!" Elvis’s lips thinned into a hard, stubborn line. "If you hadn’t taken advantage of my amnesia five years ago, she is the woman I would have married." In all the years he had lived under my roof, supported by my wealth and status, he had never dared speak to me like this. A sharp, stinging burn rose behind my eyelids. "Is that really how you remember it? That I took advantage of you? That I ruined your life?" Five years ago, a massive commercial fire tore through a shopping district. My instinctive savior complex kicked in, and I ran into the burning building, finding him pinned beneath a collapsed steel display rack. I hauled the burning metal off him, ignoring the severe second-degree blisters spreading across my own hands, and dragged his dead weight through the smoke. He woke up in the ICU with severe retrograde amnesia caused by toxic smoke inhalation. Taking pity on his vulnerability, I paid for the city's finest medical specialists and private nursing care. My friends had warned me: "Your hero complex is going too far this time, Vivien. If his memory never comes back, are you planning on supporting a stray for the rest of your life?" I had hesitated, but during his recovery, he had been profoundly gentle, attentive, and grateful. Whenever I visited the hospital, he would have fruit neatly sliced for me, presenting me with small, intricate flower crowns he had woven from the courtyard blossoms. "Vivien, visiting hours are the only part of my day that matters," he had whispered, his eyes bright with affection. "Once I regain my memories and establish myself properly... will you let me court you?" Among all the people I had helped over the years, he was the most handsome, and his tenderness was intoxicating. I fell hard. Months later, my team finally tracked down his elderly parents in their rural hometown. The timing was fateful: his father had just suffered an acute cardiac arrest. I immediately dispatched an emergency medical helicopter, secured the nation's top cardiothoracic surgical team, and paid the entire eight-hundred-thousand-dollar bill without batting an eye. When his father survived and learned where Elvis was, the old man wept and fell to his knees in gratitude. Yet, when I brought his healed parents to Elvis’s hospital room, eager to share the joyful reunion, the man in the hospital bed looked at me with chilling detachment. His memory had returned. And with it, his warmth had died. That afternoon, Elvis spoke with his parents behind closed doors for hours. In the weeks that followed, he became distant. He never mentioned the confession he had made to me during his amnesia. Resigning myself to reality, I prepared to walk away and let him go. Out of nowhere, he proposed. "Let’s get married, Vivien," he had said flatly. "Our lives are too entangled now. You’ve done too much for my family. I will take your standing and marry into your world." He never said he loved me. I foolishly assumed love was implied. After the wedding, he remained quiet and emotionally restrained, but he fulfilled every practical duty of a husband: sharing meals, holding hands at public galas, sharing a bed. I thought that with enough patience and devotion, the gentle man from the hospital ward would eventually return. I never imagined that deep down, he had spent the last five years blaming me for severing his rustic childhood romance. Hearing the slight tremor in my breath, Elvis softened his tone just a fraction. "Vivien, I'm not made of stone. Of course I have feelings for you after all these years." "But it’s also an undeniable fact that your arrival severed my future with Maisie." "So please... don't make things difficult for her. Alright?" I closed my eyes, feeling a profound, hollow exhaustion settle into my bones. "Fine. Then let’s..." "Let’s get a divorce." Instead of looking relieved, Elvis’s face darkened with rare fury. "Vivien, what kind of man do you take me for? I never said I wanted a divorce!" He slammed his smartphone onto the desk, his sharp features tight with cold indignation. "We both owe Maisie a debt of closure. Once I spend some time helping her settle her business, I will cut ties with her naturally." "You’ve loved me for five years. Why say things you don't mean just to spite me?" I turned my face away, entirely speechless. I saved his life. I saved his father’s life. I provided funding, resources, and unreserved devotion. Where, in any of that, did I incur a debt to him or Maisie? He was the one who lost his memory, forgot his childhood betrothal, and pursued me. I simply accepted. How did that make me the villain? Neither his parents nor he had ever breathed a word about an existing engagement. He claimed Maisie was pitiable. What about me? What had I done to deserve this quiet betrayal? Our conversation ended in dead silence. ... The next evening, I attended an upscale gathering for our social circle, my mind wandering the entire time. Our friends quickly noticed my distraction. "Vivien looks a bit down tonight." "Where’s Professor Elvis? Did he get tied up at the lab again?" "I heard Vivien just routed five million into his university AI project. He’s probably buried in research to hit the quarterly milestone." My closest friend, Tara, rested her chin on my shoulder, teasing gently, "Honestly, Viv, you’re gorgeous, brilliant, and absurdly generous. Why did you tie the knot so young? There are so many eligible bachelors dying for a chance with you." Just then, the heavy double doors of the private dining lounge swung open. Assuming it was the sommelier, I casually replied, "If there are any truly exceptional men out there, feel free to introduce me next time." "And who exactly are you looking to meet?" Elvis’s voice rang out, sharp and sudden. I turned in surprise. He was standing in the doorway, his dark eyes shadowed with an icy, possessive intensity. The room immediately erupted into lighthearted laughter, people stepping in to smooth over the tension. Elvis crossed the room with deliberate strides, wrapping a possessive arm around my shoulders. Turning to our friends, he donned his polished, patrician smile. "It’s getting late, so I’m going to take my wife home. Please, enjoy the rest of the night—the tab is on me." His manners were impeccably courteous. Everyone waved cheerfully, thanking him for the drinks. The moment we stepped outside into the cool night air, I felt his fingers trembling against my coat. He guided me swiftly toward his sedan, and the second the car doors clicked shut, his mouth came down on mine in a fierce, breathless kiss. When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving, his eyelashes damp, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic, desperate dominance. "Vivien, don't provoke me." "Just give me a little more time. Maisie knows nothing about our life here. I will handle it properly and give you a resolution." He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his voice muffled and pleading: "Just... please don't let go of my hand. Okay?" In five years, I had never seen him so vulnerable. A small, stubborn corner of my heart cracked open. Making an excuse that I’d left my silk scarf in the restaurant, I gently pushed him away and stepped out of the vehicle. Walking back through the courtyard, a traitorous thought crossed my mind: "Was Maisie truly innocent in all this? If she was entirely in the dark, how should I handle her?" I walked aimlessly down the brick path toward the terrace garden. And then, I saw the pastel-pink hair. Maisie was sitting on an outdoor stone bench with a curly-haired friend, sipping iced lattes. "Oh my god," the friend was saying in a hushed whisper. "That woman who just walked out... that was Elvis’s wife, wasn't it? She looks like an absolute powerhouse—wealthy family, corporate empire. Maisie, maybe you should drop this. If you mess with someone like her, she’ll destroy you." Maisie scoffed, tossing her hair back with complete nonchalance. "Please! I’ve already seen her." "She came to my store yesterday pretending to be an ordinary customer, making Elvis try on clothes just to mess with us. What, playing the wronged wife? Historically speaking, who's the real wife is still up for debate! Why should I be scared of her?" "Elvis promised he’s flying me overseas to get a marriage license in Vegas for my birthday next week!" "Once I have that legal standing, what can she do? Elvis has run several subsidiary companies under their family umbrella for years. Once we drain a few more millions from that old witch, I’ll tell him to file for divorce and walk away." "On my birthday, I'm announcing our marriage to the whole world!" The words "marriage license" struck me like a physical blow across the face. Every shred of sympathy, every lingering hesitation, evaporated into dust. I pulled out my phone and sent two encrypted texts to my executive assistant: [Pull up Maisie's full legal background and date of birth.] [And have corporate legal draft an ironclad divorce settlement.] ... When I returned to the car, I was completely calm. No shouting. No tears. Elvis took my quietness as acceptance. Over the next few days, he treated me with unprecedented tenderness. He even began reporting his whereabouts before meeting her. "Vivien, I'm stopping by Maisie's store for an hour to help with inventory." I replied, "Go ahead." That afternoon, I instructed corporate accounting to add a secondary authorization protocol to every corporate account under Elvis’s management. Any expenditure over ten thousand dollars now required my personal biometric signature. On the surface, nothing changed. "Vivien, Maisie's running an evening clearance livestream tonight. Don't wait up for me." I replied, "Understood." That night, my legal team flagged and archived every single financial transfer from our joint marital assets into his personal accounts over the past four years. He remained utterly oblivious. "Vivien, your media department ran several viral marketing campaigns last quarter, right? Can you send me the internal strategy deck?" I forwarded the files immediately. That same day, my investigators uncovered a newly deeded luxury waterfront villa in the east district—registered entirely under Maisie’s legal name. I didn't make a sound. I simply instructed my team to document every instance of them entering and leaving the property together. On the morning of Maisie’s birthday, Elvis put on a crisp charcoal suit, kissed my cheek, and said he had back-to-back departmental meetings at the university. My operatives were already in position. They followed him to her apartment, watched them board a private charter, and tracked them as they touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. [Ms. Winslow, they just signed the register at a wedding chapel.] On the live feed transmitted directly to my tablet, Elvis dropped to one knee beneath an arch of white peonies, holding up an exquisite pink diamond ring. The man who had always guarded his emotions had tears shimmering in his eyes. "Maisie, marry me." I recognized that stone instantly: the "Eternal Heart," a rare pink diamond sold at Sotheby’s last month for nearly six million dollars. In four years of marriage, despite running several of my family's profitable subsidiaries, he had never spent more than a few thousand dollars on a gift for me. I watched the screen as they exchanged rings, embraced, and kissed passionately to the applause of hired witnesses. I slowly placed a hand over my chest. It was fascinating: I thought my heart was already dead, yet it could still ache with such sharp, hollow precision. Our own wedding had been a multimillion-dollar society event, dubbed by the press as the union of the decade. Yet here, his genuine devotion was pledged over a fifty-dollar municipal certificate in a neon-lit chapel. My phone chimed with a high-resolution photo from my assistant: [Ms. Winslow, the ballroom setup at the Grand Luxe Hotel is complete.] [Her birthday banquet tonight is going to be unforgettable.] I typed back steadily: [Good. Make sure every single relative and friend from her hometown receives a VIP invitation.] [I want them all there to witness it.] ... That evening, Maisie arrived at the Grand Luxe ballroom looking like a modern-day princess. Elvis accompanied her in a bespoke tuxedo, attentive and devoted. Behind them streamed a large entourage of her closest friends and acquaintances. They marveled at the five-star opulence, the runner of imported Ecuadorian roses, and the towering eighteen-tier champagne fountain. "Maisie, your boyfriend is incredible!" "I’ve only seen this hotel in luxury magazines. This must have cost a fortune!" "Where did you find a man this wealthy and devoted?" "I heard they were childhood sweethearts. You can't compete with destiny!" Maisie clung tightly to Elvis’s arm, her smile radiant and triumphant. Suddenly, the massive LED projection screen at the front of the ballroom flickered to life. Someone in the crowd cheered excitedly: "Ooh! Is this the romantic tribute video Elvis put together for her?" A second later, bold, crimson letters exploded across the screen: [Happy Birthday to Maisie, the Proud Home-Wrecker!] [How are you enjoying my husband?]