My CEO Wife's Elite Training Plan

Harvey's Point-of-View

"This is an improved laxative. It works instantly and helps your digestion without giving you nonstop diarrhea. It's bathroom time. Go now."

My wife, Cassandra Solis, handed me a glass of water mixed with laxatives. The temperature was set to 104 degrees Fahrenheit, warm enough that it wouldn't upset my stomach.

A stack of toilet paper sat beside it, laid out neatly. There were exactly ten sheets, and they were thick enough that even diarrhea wouldn't soak through.

She pressed the countdown timer, and its rapid beeping drilled into my nerves.

Five years of training had conditioned my body into acting on habit.

My mind was still trying to make sense of the lines of text floating in front of my eyes, but my hand had already taken the glass and drained it in one gulp. My legs had already moved, sprinting for the restroom.

The toilet flushed loudly.

When I came out, Cassandra was leaning against the sink in the men's restroom. A group of men ran past her, scrambling to pull up their pants, but she didn't care. She simply pressed the timer to stop it.

The display froze at 00:00:03.

A faint smile finally appeared on her usually cold face.

"Not bad," she said. "Three seconds faster than last time."

That rare praise lit a small spark of joy in me. Then, I remembered the strange lines of text.

I rubbed my eyes, convinced I must've been seeing things because I was too sick.

Back in high school, I had been dead last in class. It was only because of Cassandra's brutal study plan that I managed to turn my life around and get into Dalvea University, the best university in the country.

After that, under her guidance, I was among the top performers the whole way through.

She had put this much effort into training me because she wanted me to be someone she could rely on. It definitely wasn't because she wanted me to help pay off another man's debts.

I shook my head with a quiet laugh.

Cassandra frowned and caught my wrist as I rubbed my eyes.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Don't rub your eyes before washing your hands. It's bad for them. If you do it again, I'm taking an hour off your rest time."

She pulled both my hands under the faucet, pumped soap into my palms, and made me follow the standard seven-step handwashing method.

After she dried my hands, she opened a toolbox, took out a ruler, and clipped the one millimeter of nail growth I had just gotten. She left them at the length that was most suitable for typing.

When she finished, she gave my back a light pat. "Time for work. Go back to your desk."