The year I married my mortal enemy was the year I died. Because I was tragically beautiful and my death was inconveniently sudden, the Guide who came to collect my soul granted me an extra hour to say my goodbyes. A nice gesture, but my list of loved ones was short. My mother was long dead, my father had remarried, and my brother and my childhood best friend were too busy fighting over my stepsister to care. They hadn't even glanced at the hospital's frantic calls, let alone started planning a funeral. I hovered in the morgue, staring at my own shattered body, when I had a brilliant idea. My dear husband. The second he picked up, I launched into my performance. "Hello? I've been kidnapped. Venmo me fifty bucks, or your precious wife and the little heir to the Thorne empire are going to die..." That call, the one he hung up on, would become the great tragedy of Julian Thorne's life. 1 I pitched my voice high and syrupy, a caricature of a damsel in distress. "It's gonna be a really messy death, you know. Like, Humpty Dumpty messy. All the king's horses and all the king's men won't be able to put me back together again." "Aw, what a shame for Mr. Thorne's little baby. Never even got to say 'daddy.' Too bad. I was really looking forward to having a kid who looked like both of us, just to piss you off." "Nothing to say? Knew it. You cheap bastard. You were probably hoping I'd die sooner." "Well, whatever. Thanks for picking up. Vera the Great forgives you. From now on, live a good life. And you'd better find a wife who's prettier than me, or I'll be seriously disappointed." "And hey, for old times' sake, bury me somewhere busy, okay? I don't want to be lonely. Actually, forget it. You'll probably just toss my ashes in the garbage." "One last thing, Julian... I love you." I choked out those last three words, a bitter, struggling sound. I took a deep, non-existent breath, fighting the urge to vomit. After delivering my half-true, half-prank final testament, I felt a lightness spread through my soul. That bastard Julian Thorne had hated my guts since high school. An exiled, illegitimate son of a tycoon, he'd made it his life's mission to one-up me and sabotage me at every turn. After we got married, he spent his nights out, never coming home, and always had a scowl reserved just for me. I'd been dying to mess with him one last time. He was on a business trip when the accident happened. He'd come home to a box of his wife's ashes. Heh. Die quietly and see how the enemy reacts. Perfect. 2 The Guide floated beside me, clicking his tongue. "That was incredibly messed up." I shook my head. "You don't know him. That son of a bitch has been cold-blooded since birth. If a line of people were jumping off a bridge in front of him, he'd just cross his legs, pull out his phone, and post it to his Instagram story." "Wow. Is that a human thing? Where I'm from, we don't usually call the person we have hate-sex with a 'stranger.'" "Please. That was just biology." I paused, considering. "He's worse than a stranger. A stranger jumping off a bridge gets an Instagram story. If I jumped, he'd kick me so hard I'd land in Paris, just to get me out of his sight." "But I thought you were, like, universally beloved?" the Guide asked, confused. "I am. There are eight billion people on the planet. If 0.0001% of them like me, that's still eighty thousand people. By any metric, that makes me a sensation, right?" 3 It was true, though. My mother gave me her stunning looks and her equally terrible temper. I was bossy, arrogant, and self-centered. Besides my brother, Leo, and my childhood friend, Evan, no one ever stuck around. When we were kids, Leo adored me. He said it didn't matter if I had a bad temper; he was the one spoiling me. If anyone said a bad word about me, he'd take care of them. He and Evan promised me I was their one and only little sister, that they'd lay the world at my feet without me having to lift a finger. I remember when I was little, I ran into the street to save a stray kitten and was nearly hit by a truck. Leo pushed me out of the way and ended up in the hospital for two months. He was barely conscious, but he gently wiped my tears and whispered, "Don't cry, Vera. You're more important than anything. Brothers are born to protect their sisters. I'll always be here for you." But I grew up, and they broke their promises. Not long after Leo's accident, my mother died. My father married his childhood sweetheart, "the one that got away." My new stepsister, Chloe, moved into our house. At first, Leo hated the quiet, docile Chloe as much as I did. Our father loved our stepmother more than he'd ever loved our mom, and he loved Chloe more than he'd ever loved us. Leo tormented her, locking her in the basement overnight. He told me it was because of her and her mother that our mom was gone. I believed him and never gave either of them a moment's peace. But then, Leo changed. Chloe's quiet resilience wore him down. He fell for her. One year, for my birthday, Chloe gave me a handmade doll. When I threw it in the trash in front of her, Leo slapped me. The shock on his face vanished in an instant, replaced by concern as he rushed to Chloe's side, inspecting the pinpricks on her fingers. "Do you have any idea how many nights she stayed up to make that for you, Vera? When are you going to grow up?" he seethed. "I thought you and Mom were so alike. Always stubborn, always selfish, always making everyone hate you." The mention of my mother made my vision go red. I smashed a vase over his head. From that day on, he called me a "psycho," and I called him a "traitor." We were at war. Later, I tried to confide in Evan, but he just sighed. "Just let it go, Vera. You're all family." I froze. My eyes fell to his wrist. The expensive watch I'd given him was gone, replaced by a cheap, woven bracelet. He noticed my gaze and quickly hid his hand. "Sorry, I lost the watch." I might have believed him if I hadn't seen that unique, one-of-a-kind watch I designed myself in Chloe's jewelry box. She later gave it to our housekeeper as a New Year's gift. But that flimsy, withered bracelet? Evan treasured it like gold. I told myself it was just a watch. Evan was just a childhood friend. It didn't matter. They were all the same. I didn't like Chloe, so they said I was bitter. They told me to move on, but they treated me like an outsider, a wolf in their perfect new family. When I got sick, Chloe would get sick too. And because she was "frail," my pain was always dismissed as drama. "You've been pampered your whole life, Vera. Stop with these games for attention." Leo seemed to forget how tough I used to be. Because Chloe was quiet and long-suffering, my pain became attention-seeking. Because she was kind and tried to befriend me, my rejection of her became me being ungrateful. Because she'd "had a hard life," I was cut off financially in college to "build character" and make up for her supposed hardships. Leo dropped out of the police academy and switched to a business degree, just to stay by her side. With him and Evan as her champions, Chloe flourished. She learned how to be demanding, how to complain. Spoiled by their devotion, she grew into the very princess she'd replaced. She even had the audacity to smile and tell me that we were equals now; she wouldn't put up with my attitude anymore. She was right. She didn't have to. The moment she walked into our house, I became homeless. Silence didn't earn me their respect, and lashing out would only get me sent to a shrink. The bright, fearless girl I once was faded into a past life. I became quiet, calculating, and cynical. My teenage years were a slow, agonizing process of being flayed alive. Now, I'm twenty-four. Or, I was. In the years since, I used every dirty trick in the book to reclaim the assets my mother left me, securing twenty percent of my family's company. I burned every bridge, wrecked their lives, and vowed never to speak to them again. The last message in our family group chat was from two years ago, on Chloe's graduation day. I'd crashed the ceremony. Leo, forgetting our vow of silence, was furious enough to text me. "It would have been better if you'd just died in that car crash all those years ago." 4 Prophetic words. The bone cancer they found during a check-up didn't kill me. A speeding sports car on a random Tuesday evening did. I died broken and bleeding, pathetically hoping the baby in my womb would finally give me a reason to live, a connection to this world. I hadn't been loved in so long, I'd forgotten how to love back. Maybe it was for the best. My marriage was a business transaction with my nemesis. A child born into that wouldn't have been any happier than I was. The cake I'd just bought was crushed under me. Blood dripped from my forehead into my mouth, metallic and thick. It made me want to cough, but my lungs burned like they were filled with glass. It hurts so much, Leo. Was it this bad for you? My trembling finger scrolled through my contacts. I'd meant to call Julian, but my vision blurred, and I accidentally called Leo. I didn't have the strength to change it. Dying makes you weak. Makes you sentimental. What was I supposed to say? Would he be angry? Happy? I wanted to cry. I wanted to tell him I was scared. You promised you'd protect me forever. Why did you break your promise? But he didn't give me the chance. The call was quickly rejected. A cold, robotic voice answered: Please leave a message after the tone. Of course. This was how it was supposed to be. But why did unshed tears hurt more than bleeding? "I... listened to you... Leo... we're even now." The people who loved me died in that first crash. I was going to find them. Never mind. I'm dying. Think of something else. What was I doing today? Right. It was my birthday. The baby had sparked a tiny flicker of hope in me. Pregnancy makes you foolishly optimistic. I had bought a cake and was on my way to see Julian, who had just gotten back from his trip. I was going to tell him I had a surprise. I was going to take his hand and place it on my stomach, like any normal woman, and tell my husband: I'm pregnant. I know you hate me. I know you think I'm an arrogant, petty bitch, and you're an immature asshole. But I know you'd be a good father. Can we stop fighting? Can we start over? With this little one. Like a normal, boring family. The kind of life I always dreamed of. No chance for that now. Isn't it funny, Julian? Fate really was determined to make us hate each other forever. The clock tower struck midnight. The massive screen on top lit up, becoming the last thing I ever saw. It was a picture of Chloe, surrounded by adoring fans on a stage. It was her twenty-fourth birthday, too. One day after mine. 5 "Okay, let's go," I said to the Guide, waving a dismissive hand. I'd crashed my stepmother's parties, stolen a major deal from my brother, dumped a bucket of pig's blood on Chloe at her graduation, and even produced an indie film about my father's affair that went viral. And with my dying breath, I'd gotten one last jab in at my husband. My relationships were in ruins, but damn, it was satisfying. As my soul left my body, the pain vanished, replaced by a strange sense of freedom. I cackled, thinking about that "I love you." If I were still alive, I'd be crying with laughter. I tossed my phone aside and happily followed the Guide, ready to cross over. But he coughed awkwardly and pointed at the phone's screen. I glanced over. Call Duration—0:05. Are you kidding me? I'd forced myself through that whole dramatic monologue, and he only heard the first sentence. Whatever. I mentally crushed the phone into dust and took the metaphorical drink of forgetting from the Guide. Goodbye, cruel world. Here's to the next life. ...And then I woke up on my enemy's bed. "Honey..." 6 My head was splitting. I couldn't open my eyes. A deep, raspy voice whispered from behind me, sending a jolt down my spine. I knew that voice. But the owner of that voice never, ever called me "honey." Even in the throes of passion, when I'd have him pinned down, begging, he'd only ever spit out my full name through gritted teeth. Nice one, Julian. I knew you had another wife stashed somewhere. Instinctively, I tried to kick him out of bed, but my foot met only empty air. I kicked again. Nothing. I froze for three seconds, then forced my eyes open. The bedroom was the same. The sheets were the same. The man beside me was... almost the same. He was sleeping fitfully, his brows furrowed. His normally sharp, short hair had grown out, falling over his eyes, making him look boyish, like he did in high school. But the sharp angle of his jaw and the exhaustion etched into his features gave him away. "Pathetic. Look what you've done to yourself." As the words left my mouth, Julian's eyes shot open. He sat up abruptly, staring at the wall for a long moment before covering his face with his hand. "Another nightmare, honey," he mumbled. "You told me to bring you a ten-piece bucket from KFC as an offering. I said no, so you threatened to personally batter and fry me into a Zinger." ... A small, sad smile touched his lips. He lowered his hand, his expression shifting back to the familiar, detached mask. He turned, his gaze fixed on the spot where I was floating, his eyes empty. "You'd better have moved on, Vera. Because if I ever find you again, you're finished." "I'll make you pay." He finished his threat by flicking his finger through the air, right at my forehead. ? I was completely dumbfounded. Julian got up and started putting on a suit, his back to me. My gaze drifted past him to the full-length mirror in the hallway. Reflected in it was not me, but a creature with fluffy white arms, chubby legs, and a big, fuzzy head. I had become the ugly polar bear plushie I'd bought at the mall on a whim, just to annoy him. "Apologies, Ms. Vera," the Guide's voice echoed in my head, finally showing up. "There was a... clerical error at the Re-entry Department. That extra hour you were granted has disrupted the causal nexus. It's going to cause a chain reaction of untimely deaths." "In other words, you have to stay here for a while and, uh, save the world." Me? All I did was make one prank call! 7 The afterlife had screwed up, and I was paying the price. But the real sicko in this situation was Julian. Julian Thorne, the ruthless, cold-hearted tycoon of Sterling City, had a thing for inanimate objects. Specifically, an ugly white polar bear he hated, which he now called "wife" in his sleep. I should have been laughing, but I couldn't. After getting dressed, Julian rummaged through a closet and pulled out a tiny, black-and-white maid outfit. Without a word, he dressed me in it. Then he picked me up, walked past a line of stone-faced house staff, and strapped me into the passenger seat of his car. Twenty minutes later, I was sitting on his desk in his high-rise office. No one batted an eye. It was business as usual. I pieced things together. It was 2028. Three years had passed since my untimely demise. Nothing had changed. With me out of the picture, Julian's company was thriving. Most of my old employees now worked for him. Everyone was busy living their lives. And Julian? He was living it up even more. Nights at the bar, drinking himself into a stupor, only to come home at midnight sharp to cuddle with his polar bear wife. I figured he had a string of women on the side; he was a playboy, after all. But he never took off his wedding ring. I overheard him telling a friend, "It keeps people away. One disastrous marriage was enough to nearly kill me. I don't have the energy for another relationship." Right. He was in a relationship with a polar bear.
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