MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

LIVING WITH MY RIVAL

Amara's pov

I thought sharing a last name was the worst part, but I was wrong. The worst part is sharing a kitchen. Three days. That's how long Daniel Okafor and I have been living under the same roof, following the five rules we wrote on my phone like they were a peace treaty.

The house is huge, too big for two people who refuse to talk to each other, glass walls, cold floors, a dining table that could seat 15 people. My father picked it. For the appearance, he said.

Daniel took the master bedroom, I took the guest room at the other end of the hall. Between us was a hallway that felt like a border. We have a system. He's out until 7a.m. I'm out by 7:15. He uses the gym in the mornings. I use it at night. Groceries are delivered twice a week. Neither of us sign for them, we leave the boxes in the foyer and pretend the other person isn't watching. It should be easy but it's not.

*Day 1. The coffee incident*

I came downstairs at 6:50a.m. He was already there, in sweatpants and a plain black T-shirt, making coffee. The rule was no interfering, no talking unless we had to. But there was one coffee mug left in the cabinet. Mine, the blue one I brought from my apartment. He was holding it.

I stopped in the doorway." That's my mug."

He didn't look up." There were no clean ones," he said.

" Because you used all of them."

"I made coffee," he said, gesturing toward its direction. "For yourself?" I asked. He finally turned. And for a second, I saw it. That same look from the altar. Tired, angry, and trapped. Then it was gone.

"Do you want it or not?" He held the mug out. I took it. Our fingers didn't touch. Rule 2." Thank you," I said, because my mother raised me better than to be rude to enemies.

He just nodded and walked out with his black, no-sugar coffee. Just like I remembered from school events when we were 16 and forced to sit at the same table. I poured the coffee out and made a new pot. Petty? Maybe. But this is a battle of wills now.

*Day 2. The Thermostat War*

I like it cold when I sleep at 68 degrees, but he likes it warm at 74. By 2 a.m. I was in three blankets and still shivering. By 6 a.m. he was walking around in shorts complaining it was like a fridge. We didn't say anything. We just keep changing it from 68 to 74, 74 to 68.

*Day 3: The dinner table*

Tonight, at a gala. We had to go to rule 4: public appearance. We drove there in silence. We smiled for photos, we did one dance. His hands on my back were light, careful, like he was afraid I would break or like he was afraid he would want to hold on longer.

We came home at 11 p.m. both starving because we barely ate the chicken they served us at the gala. There was leftover pasta in the fridge, one container. We both reached for it at the same time in the kitchen. Our hands didn't touch, but we both stopped.

"You can have it," he said." I'm not hungry," I lied. He stared at me. "You didn't eat."

"Neither did you," we paused for a long time, while the fridge hummed between us. Finally, he took the container, heated half of the pasta, and slid the remaining half across the counter to me. He didn't sit down. I didn't either. We ate standing up, on opposite sides of the table, not looking at each other. It was the most civil thing we've done all week. Afterward, he rinsed his plate and left. I did the same too.

In my room, I opened my note app, stared at the five rules. No emotions. But I was furious he used my mug. No touching. I noticed exactly how far his hands were from mine. No interfering. I know he likes his coffee black and he sleeps hot.

I'm breaking all of them, and we haven't even had a real fight yet. This isn't living. This is surviving. The house is so quiet I can hear him moving around down the hall. I wonder if he's also laying awake, staring at the ceiling, counting down the 359 days we have left.

My phone buzzes. It's my dad. "How's married life?" The board loves the photos. I didn't answer, instead I typed a new note under the rules.

Rule 7. Don't care. Don't care what he eats, don't care what temperature he likes, don't care that he looked tired tonight. Don't care that for half a second at the gala, when he spun me, I forgot we were pretending. Then I hit save.

Down the hall, a door closes. And I pulled the blanket up to my chin, in a 68 degree room, with my enemy sleeping 40 feet away. This is what marriage is now.

A cold house. A full fridge with food neither of us will claim and a list of rules we're already failing to keep. But I'm not going to be the first one to break. Not to him, not to Daniel Okafor. Amara thought while sleeping off.

...

Amara's Pov

It happened on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are boring, nothing ever happens on Tuesdays, so the universe decided to set my house on fire. I was in the kitchen at 7a.m, pouring coffee into my blue mug, when Daniel walked in.

He was in a suit, an early morning meeting. He looked like he hadn't slept, there were shadows under his eyes that matched mine. We didn't speak. Rule 3: no interfering. We hadn't spoken in two days, not since the thermostat war ended in a compromise of 71 degrees that made both of us miserable. He went to the fridge, opened it, closed it.

Then opened it again.

"Are you looking for something?" I asked before I could stop myself. Damn it, that was interfering. He pulled out a container with my name on it with a sharpie — Do not eat. It was the leftover salmon I labeled after the gala last night.

"Is this yours?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Then why is it in the fridge with the catering leftovers from last night?" he asked.

"Because that's where I put it," I replied. He shut the fridge harder than necessary and said," My assistant ordered that food. It was for a client meeting, now half of it is gone, and half is labeled with your name."

My jaw tightened. "I was hungry," I said. "You ate at the gala," he replied.

"I didn't eat. I picked up salad for the cameras."

Then order your own food Amara. There it was, my name in his mouth. Not Mrs Okafor, not you. But Amara. It sounded wrong and right at the same time. I set my mug down. It was too hard that the coffee splashed on the table. "You don't get to tell me what I do in my own house," I said.

"Our house that our father bought to keep us from ruining their deal," he corrected. I crossed my arms and said, "And there it is, it always comes back to them, doesn't it? We're not people to you, we're collateral." Daniel laughed. But it wasn't funny.

" Collateral? You think this is easy for me? I had to kiss my enemy in front of hundreds of people and smile about it. I had to watch my father shake your father's hand like the last 20 years didn't happen," Daniel said.

So say no. The words came out of my mouth before I could catch them. Say no Daniel and walk away. We both want to. He stepped closer, not touching, but was close enough that I could smell his cologne and the coffee on his breath. "You think I didn't try?" The day after the engagement was announced, I went to my father's office and told him I wouldn't do it, you know what he said?

"What?" I asked. He said if I don't agree to the marriage, 400 people would lose their jobs by Friday. Including our driver, including the woman who's been cleaning for us since I was 10. He dragged a hand through his hair. So don't even talk to me about saying no. The kitchen felt smaller. "Don't put that on me," I whispered. My father said the same thing.

"Then we're stuck," Daniel replied. "We're stuck because you keep acting like this is my fault."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Daniel asked.

"It means you look at me like I'm the reason we're here, like I planned this," my voice cracked." I didn't ask for this either, Daniel. I didn't ask to marry the boy who called me a traitor in 10th grade because I won student council". He blinked. "You remember that?"

"I remember everything about you. That's the problem." The word hung in the air. Too honest, too much. Daniel's expression shut down. The anger drained, and something worse took place. Distance.

"Right," he said quietly. "The rules."

"The rules," I echoed. He picked up his briefcase and said he had a meeting. "Daniel," I called.

"Don't." He stopped at the doorway but didn't turn around. "Just.... don't. "We have a board dinner on Friday, be ready at 7." Then he was gone. The front door clicked shut.

The kitchen was silent again, except for the coffee dripping unto the counter off my mug. I stood there for a long time. Mad, hurt, and furious at myself for being hurt. We made the rules to keep this from getting personal, and the first time we fought we broke every single one.

"No emotions," I yelled. "No touching. I wanted to, no interfering. I asked about his meeting." Public only. This was private, ugly, and real. I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the coffee. My hands were shaking.

Rule 7 was supposed to be DON'T CARE. But I did care, I cared that he didn't sleep, I cared that his father coerced him, I cared that he remembered I was student council president in 10th grade. And I hated him for making me care.

My phone buzzed, and it was an unknown number. I almost ignored it, then I looked it was Daniel. "It's me. I'm sorry, I yelled." I looked at the text, I didn't reply, and I didn't delete it either. Friday at 7 is board dinner. Back to smiling, back to pretending, back to the rules.