MARRIED TO MY ENEMY'S SON

Rain battered the courthouse windows like an omen, relentless and cold, but Alina Moreno didn’t flinch. Dressed in a borrowed white gown that clung too tightly to her ribs, she stood at the front of the empty ceremonial room like a queen marching into war. The veil barely concealed the hardness in her eyes, and the bouquet in her hand felt more like a shield than a symbol of love. Across from her stood Liam Thorne, billionaire heir, corporate prince, and her target. He looked like he belonged in a business magazine—tailored suit, stormy eyes, and a face sculpted by privilege. His expression was unreadable, but Alina didn’t need to guess what he was thinking. He didn’t want to be here any more than she did. Good. Neither of them was here for love. “Do you, Alina Moreno, take Liam Thorne to be your lawfully wedded husband?” the officiant asked, her voice echoing in the empty space. Alina didn’t hesitate. “I do.” Liam’s jaw twitched slightly, and his eyes—those cold, piercing eyes—narrowed. The officiant turned to him. “And do you, Liam Thorne, take Alina Moreno—” “I do,” he said flatly, before the sentence finished. The moment hung in the air, heavier than the rain outside. A pen slid across the desk. Alina watched Liam sign his name, sharp and swift. Then it was her turn. She hesitated, just for a second, before pressing the pen to paper. Her hand trembled, but not from fear. From the memory of her father’s hands, covered in ink and shaking as he signed away the last of their company. Because of Victor Thorne. She signed: Alina Moreno-Thorne. It felt like she was swallowing poison. Polite applause broke out from the few witnesses—lawyers, two PR reps, and a bored-looking photographer. No friends. No family. Just the machine doing its work. They were married. Outside, reporters waited to snap the first photo of the scandalous union. The press had labeled it a surprise alliance. But no one knew the truth. No one knew that Alina had married into the very family that had destroyed hers. In the backseat of the Bentley, silence stretched like a blade between them. “You didn’t have to say yes,” Liam said eventually, not looking at her. She turned her face to the window. “Neither did you.” “My father made it clear. The merger only holds if we’re united in the press. Married. Seen. Stable.” Alina smiled without humor. “Victor Thorne does love appearances.” Liam finally looked at her. “So what’s your excuse?” She turned, meeting his gaze. “Let’s just say I have unfinished business with your family.” A flicker passed through his expression, too fast to read. “Is that a threat?” “Not yet,” she said softly. When they arrived at the penthouse—top floor of Thorne Tower, overlooking Manhattan—it was like stepping into ice. Every surface was glass, marble, chrome. The air smelled like expensive cologne and power. Liam tossed his coat on the couch, rolled up his sleeves, and headed straight for the liquor cabinet. “Drink?” “No. I want to remember every moment of this mistake.” He poured himself a scotch, leaned on the counter, and studied her like a puzzle he didn’t care enough to solve. “This wasn’t my idea, you know.” “And yet here we are.” “Do you really think this charade will get you what you want?” he asked. “I’ve already gotten in the door,” she replied. “That’s a start.” He gave her a long, unreadable look. “You’re not what I expected.” “Good. That makes two of us.” She turned her back on him, walking into the cold, pristine kitchen. Her heels clicked across the tile like gunfire. She opened a cabinet, found nothing personal—just rows of glasses and untouched china. No photos. No warmth. Of course not. Men like Liam didn’t need roots. They grew from stone and steel. He spoke again from behind her. “House rules. We keep appearances in public. We don’t interfere in each other’s business. And we don’t share a bed.” She turned slowly. “Afraid I’ll stab you in your sleep?” His lips curved in a smirk, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t sleep much.” She walked past him, brushing his shoulder as she went. “Then keep one eye open, husband.” He watched her go but said nothing. In the bedroom—hers now, apparently—she closed the door and exhaled for the first time in hours. Her phone buzzed as she slipped off her heels. A message. No name, just a number saved under Unknown. You're in. Begin Phase Two. She stared at the words, then deleted the message. This was the price of vengeance. Three months ago, her father was alive. Broken, humiliated, but alive. Then Victor Thorne crushed the last of his company in a hostile takeover. Her father had begged. Pleaded. There was no mercy. Two days later, he swallowed a bottle of pills and never woke up. Alina buried him alone. She remembered the funeral. Gray skies. Wet earth. The stench of lilies. And standing across the cemetery in an all-black suit, Liam Thorne. The son. The silent witness. He didn’t speak to her. Just stood there. Watching. And that was when she knew. Victor Thorne wouldn’t suffer from a lawsuit. He wouldn’t care about protests. But a marriage? An alliance? Alina would take his son. And ruin them both from the inside. Now, in the penthouse bedroom, with the city lights bleeding through the curtains, Alina sat on the edge of the bed. Her wedding dress hung limp around her like a ghost of someone else’s dream. This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even revenge yet. But it would be. She would make sure of it. No matter what it cost her.