MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

Amara's pov I never imagined my wedding day would feel like a funeral. The flowers were white and perfect. The string quartet played something soft. Hundreds of people smiled at me, raising their glasses and whispering about how beautiful I looked. But none of them knew the truth. I was walking toward the altar to marry the man I hated most. The ring on my finger was heavy. Not because of the diamond. Because it belonged to him. For twenty years, two names in this city were never said in the same sentence: Nicholas and Andrew. I’m Amara Nicholas. I grew up with the word "enemy" stitched into every story about them. I never asked why. I never had to. When your last name is Nicholas, you just know. You don’t sit at their table. You don’t take their calls. You don’t fall in love with them. Daniel grew up the same way. To him, we were the family that ruined his father. To me, they were the family that tried to ruin mine. The story, as far as anyone remembers it, starts with our fathers. Mr. Nicholas and Mr. Andrew. They were best friends as kids. They built a business together as adults. They built families, but then the business bled money. Mr. Nicholas said Mr. Andrew betrayed him. He knew all the accounts, all the secrets. Mr. Andrew said Mr. Nicholas set him up. He knew all the contacts, all the doors. No one ever proved anything. But proof stopped mattering. Hatred was easier. Twenty years later, both companies were dying. Alone, they would sink. Together, they could survive. The lawyers called it a "strategic merger." Our fathers called it something else. A bond, something they could not break without destroying themselves. That "something" was us. I, Amara Nicholas and Daniel Andrew. When they told us, Daniel laughed first. Then he got angry. I did the same. We had spent our childhoods throwing rocks at each other’s gates. Now, were we supposed to share a last name? We had no choice. The contracts were already drawn. The press release was already written. If we say no, both our families lose everything. So today I stood at the altar in a dress that cost more than most people make in a year, and I smiled. I smiled for the cameras, I smiled for the investors. I smiled because if I stopped, everyone would see how much I was shaking. Beside me, Daniel did the exact same thing. Perfect suit. Perfect posture. Perfect lie. Under that smile, the same thought kept looping in both our heads: I can’t believe I’m marrying my enemy. How am I supposed to live with the person I was raised to destroy? The priest said, "You may kiss the bride." The room held its breath. Daniel looked at me. I looked at him. And for one second, neither of us moved. ... Daniel's pov. I should have moved first. That's what a groom is supposed to do. Lean in. Kiss the bride. Make it look easy for the cameras, but when I looked at Amara eyes, I forgot every line we rehearsed. Her veil was thin, I could see her jaw clenched, her hands were gripping the bouquet so hard that her knuckles were white. She was smiling, but it wasn't for me. It was for the hundreds of people watching us, and for the news drones hovering over the church roof. Twenty years, twenty years of "don't talk to a Nicholas, don't take their deal, don't even look at them" and now I was supposed to kiss her. The priest cleared his throat. My father's eyes were burning a hole in the back of my head. Her father's too. Two old men who hadn't spoken in two decades, sitting in the front row because their children were the price of peace. I could hear my own heartbeat. Amara blinked once like she was telling me, "Just get over with it." So I did. It was quick, chaste, a brush of lips that meant nothing but also meant everything. The crowd exhaled and clapped like we just saved the world. "Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Andrew, "someone shouted. Mrs Andrew?... The name hit me like a slap. Amara Nicholas was now legally married to me, to my name, to my family, to the people she'd been taught to hate. We turned to walk down the aisle, our hands didn't touch not once, but the photographers caught us anyway, we looked at each other like we were in love. Inside, I was counting down the hours until I could be alone, until I could ask her one question that had been eating me up since I was 14. "Did your father really do it? Did he actually ruin my father?" Because this marriage wasn't about love, it was about leverage. Our fathers didn't trust each other, so they threw us together and hoped we'd dig up dirt, or fall in love and soften each other. Either way, they win. I glanced at Amara out of the corner of my eye, she was staring straight ahead, with a perfect posture and a perfect smile. She looked furious and beautiful and completely trapped, just like me. The doors opened, Confetti hit the air, and just like that, the war became a marriage. ... The car ride from the church to the reception was 11 minutes. We didn't speak for 10 of them. The driver kept glancing at us in the review mirror like he expected rose petals and laughter. All he got was silence, and two people sitting as far apart as the leather seats would allow them. Amara stared out the window and I stared at my hands. The ring on her finger caught the light every time we hit a bump. My ring felt like a handcuff. By the time we reached the hotel ballroom, both our phones had 57 messages. Beautiful couple, so happy for you. Business is saved. But none of them said the one thing that was true: "We don't want this." The reception was a performance. Toast, cake, first dance, we smiled until our cheeks hurt. We lied until it started to sound real. When the last guest left and the door finally closed behind, the sound of the room changed, the music stopped, the camera stopped, and the smile dropped. It was just us. In a penthouse our father paid for: a gigantic bed, one bathroom, one wedding. Amara dropped her bouquet on the coffee table like it burned her, she kicked off her heels and I loosened my tie. For a long minute, neither of us moved. Then she said. "We need rules." I looked up. "What kind of rules?" "That kind of rule keeps us from killing each other," she said. She moved to the mini bar, poured two glasses of water, and set one in front of me. She didn't drink hers, she just needed something to do with her hands. "Okay," I said. " Let's hear them." She pulled her phone out, opened notes, and started talking like she'd been drafting this since the engagement announcement. "Rule 1: No emotions." "This isn't real, so we don't pretend it is. No jealousy, no caring if the other one is upset, no asking how your day was like a normal couple. We keep this professional," she said, not looking at me. I nodded, professionally." I could do that, agreed, no feelings, no expectations." "Rule 2: No touching." She looked at my hands, then looked away. "Handshakes for photos, no hugs, no accidental brushes, definitely no......" She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. "Understood physical distance at all times, unless the camera is on," I said. "Rule 3: No interfering in each other's lives." "Separate bedrooms. The suite has a study with a couch. I'll take that, you get the bed," she said quickly. "I don't need a bed," I said. "Fine, separate rooms, separate friends, separate everything. We only show up together for business events. Everything else, we live like roommates who hate each other." "And no sabotage. We don't dig through each other's things, we don't go through each other's emails, we don't use these marriage things to get information about our fathers," she said. That one made me pause. Because that was the whole reason the marriage happened, wasn't it? Leverage. But if I said that out loud, this marriage would fall apart before it started, so I said, "Deal, no spying." "Rule 4: Public appearance only." "Board dinners, charity galas, family functions, two times a month minimum, we arrive together, leave together, and act in love for exactly as long as it takes, smile, hold hands for photos, and dance, then we go home," I said. "Then we go home." She repeated. "Rule 5: Exit plan." "This is the last one." Her voice got quieter. "One year. We do this for one year, and after the merger is stable, and the contracts are locked, we file for divorce. No fight, no drama, just a clean break," she said. "Agreed," I said. One year. She set them down between us on the table. The list glowed on the screen. Five rules that were supposed to be enough to survive a marriage. "Anything else?" she asked. I thought about it, about the way she looked in that dress, about the way her voice shook when she said the vows, about the fact that I'd known her face since we were kids throwing insults across a fence. "No," I lied. That's it. "Good, I'm taking the couch," she said while standing up. "Amara," I called. She stopped at the door to the sturdy but didn't turn around. "What?" "Rule 6" Now she turned. "We didn't agree to rule 6." "We need one." I stood up, keeping the table between us. "Rule 6: we don't talk about the kiss," I said. Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite anything. "Fine!, rule 6 we don't talk about kissing," she said. She disappeared into the sturdy and closed the door softly. No slam, that would have been too much emotion. I stood in the living room of our new home and listened to the quiet. No music, no applause, no cameras. Just the sound of two people breathing on opposite sides of a door, following rules we made up to survive each other. I took off my jacket and threw it over a chair. The ring felt heavier now. One year. No emotions, no touching, no interfering. Public only. Exit plan. And don't talk about the kiss. Simple. So why do I feel like I'd just signed a contract I couldn't win? I walked to the window. The city lit up below us, somewhere out there, both our fathers were probably toasting the merger. To the bond, to the children who would fix what they broke. They had no idea we'd just made rules to make sure we never fixed anything at all. The light on the sturdy went off, I turned off the living room lamp and, in the dark, two enemies went to sleep three feet apart, with five rules and one lie between us.