THE ENEMY’S BRIDE

Chapter 8

Katherine’s POV

The rays of sunlight beamed through the window, hitting my face and forcing my eyes to twitch as I struggled to wake up.

Slowly, I blinked my eyes open—only to see Andrew standing right in front of me, holding a tray of food.

I blinked twice, then rubbed my eyes, thinking maybe I was hallucinating. But no—he was still there, grinning from ear to ear with a smile that honestly made my skin crawl.

I quickly sat up in the bed, startled by his unusually cheerful expression. “Good morning,” he said, his tone too cheerful to feel real, placing the tray on the table beside me.

Then, without asking, he sat down on the edge of the bed—too close—making my entire body stiffen.

I was beyond relieved that he didn’t force us to share the bed. If I’d woken up next to him, I think my soul would’ve left my body.

“Uhm… good morning,” I managed to say, doing my best not to stutter.

He suddenly reached toward me with his hand.

I flinched on instinct.

His smile immediately faded, morphing into a frown. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as if he were trying to read my mind.

What’s wrong? You’re a full-blown psychopath, that’s what’s wrong.

And how the hell did he even get into my room? I remembered double-locking the door last night. But then it hit me—this was his mansion. Of course he had keys to every room. Which also meant… I wasn’t safe in here. Not even in my sleep.

A chill ran down my spine. There were so many rooms in this place—I needed a full tour. I had to know where I could hide if it ever came to that.

“Darling?” His voice snapped me out of my spiral, his fingers clicking right in front of my face.

I blinked, startled, and looked up at him.

“Why are you here?” I asked, trying to sound calm, polite—even though everything in me was on edge.

“Well,” he said, his tone light again as he gestured toward the tray, “I made you breakfast.”

Before I could process that, he picked up the tray and placed it gently on my lap like we were some kind of married couple playing house.

My eyes stayed glued to the tray. Toast with scrambled eggs, a cloud of whipped cream melting over it, a side of yogurt drizzled with peanut butter and topped with berries and strawberries. And a cold glass of orange juice.

It looked… amazing.

Something about it tugged at my chest. I couldn’t remember the last time someone made me breakfast , or cared enough to ask if I’d even eaten. During my three years of marriage, I was the one doing all the giving, all the cooking, all the surviving… and Nathan? He gave nothing back.

And here was a guy nicknamed Death handing me breakfast like we were in some twisted version of a fairy tale.

“I’m not really hungry,” I muttered, not trusting what he might’ve slipped into it.

“You sure?” he asked, smirking like he knew I was bluffing.

“Yes—”

Grrhhhl.

My stomach betrayed me. Loudly.

He raised an eyebrow, biting back a laugh. “Just eat,” he said with a small roll of his eyes, like I was the stubborn one here.

I hesitated, glancing down at the food again. It smelled so good. Warm. Inviting. Normal.

But normal didn’t exist here. Not in this mansion. Not with him.

Still… if I didn’t eat, I’d collapse—and if I collapsed, he’d just use that against me.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, still cautious, but picking up the fork.

His eyes stayed on me. Watching. Like he was studying how far he could push me—or maybe how close I’d let him get.

“Go on, eat—we have somewhere to go,” he said, his voice firm but casual, like it was just another normal day.

I narrowed my eyes at him, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Where are we going?” I asked cautiously.

He leaned back in the chair, resting one arm over the backrest while the other ran through his messy blond hair. That stupid lip piercing caught the light, only making him look more like the trouble he clearly was.

“To my parents’ place,” he said, like it was no big deal.

I froze. “Your what?”

“My parents. You know—mom, dad, judgment, awkward stares, fake smiles. The whole package,” he added, clearly amused by my horror-struck face.

I dropped the fork on the plate. “Why?!”

He shrugged. “You’re my wife now. Contract or not, they want to meet you. And I don’t like repeating myself.”

“Go on, eat,” he said again, his tone somewhere between a command and a challenge.

I sighed and took another bite, chewing slowly, my eyes never leaving his. He was watching me like I was some science experiment—like he was waiting for me to either pass out or fall in love.

Neither was happening.

“Do your parents know about the whole contract wife thing?” I asked between bites, raising an eyebrow.

Andrew leaned against the chair , arms crossed, a slight smirk playing on his lips. “No. And they don’t need to.”

I froze mid-bite. “Wait… so we’re lying to your entire family?”

He gave me a look that practically said duh. “That’s kind of the whole point, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The word rolled off his tongue with way too much ease. I didn’t know whether to throw the toast at him or scream into a pillow.

“And what happens if they find out?” I pressed.

His smile disappeared. “They won’t.”

Right. Totally reassuring.

“Fine,” I muttered. “But you better not expect me to act like some lovesick i***t when we get there. I’m not going to be kissing you or holding hands or any of that—”

He walked over to me in two strides, leaned down, and whispered, “You’ll do whatever it takes to make it convincing, Katherine. You signed up for this.”

My breath caught in my throat. His closeness, his voice, the intensity in his eyes—it all sent a shiver down my spine.

I stared at him, wiping the side of my mouth with the back of my hand. “Wait—you didn’t mention anything about parents when I signed that death trap of a contract.”

He gave me a look. “You didn’t read it.”

Touché.

My heart rate kicked up. Why didn’t I read it.

“But… why now?” I asked, picking at the berries with my fork, suddenly not so hungry. “We just—signed the contract. Can’t we, I don’t know, ease into the madness?”

Andrew stood up from the bed, stretching casually like we were talking about going to the beach. “Because they invited us, and I said yes. You’re my wife now. You don’t get back out of this.”

I frowned. “You could’ve at least asked me.”

He looked over his shoulder. “I don’t ask. I inform.”

My jaw clenched. “You’re unbelievable.”

He turned fully toward me, those dark eyes scanning my face like they were picking apart every nerve I had. “And you’re coming,” he said calmly, “whether you like it or not.”

A beat of silence passed. Just the hum of my breathing and the sound of distant thunder still echoing in the background from the earlier storm.

“Do I need to dress like a perfect little wife?” I asked bitterly.

He smirked, walking toward the door. “No. Just dress like yourself. That should scare them enough.”

And with that, he was gone.

Andrew drove us to his parents’ house in complete silence. I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my dress. The lack of conversation was driving me crazy. He could’ve at least given me a hint—a single pointer—on how to act around his family, especially after that little surprise he dropped about meeting his parents.

As soon as he parked the car in front of the massive estate, I opened my mouth to speak. “Uhm, shouldn’t we—”

Slam.

He was already out of the car, and the door shut right in my face.

I blinked, letting out a frustrated sigh before stepping out of the car. My eyes widened at the sight of the mansion—it was huge, like something out of a royal drama. Gated, towering, elegant… and very intimidating.

Andrew waited on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, looking as unbothered as ever. When I caught up to him, he suddenly reached for my hand and laced his fingers through mine. I flinched at the unexpected touch.

“What are you doing?” I asked, glancing up at him.

“Shush,” he muttered, walking forward like nothing happened.

We approached the large front door and rang the bell. Moments later, an older man in a suit opened it, bowing slightly. Andrew gave him a small nod and led me inside without a word.

I barely had time to admire the stunning interior—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, walls that looked like they belonged in a museum—when a poised voice called out, “Andrew, is that you?”

I turned just in time to see a woman step into view. Elegant, polished, with a strict look in her eyes. Andrew’s mother, no doubt.

“Mom,” Andrew said simply.

She smiled—until her eyes landed on me. That smile dropped like a stone.

“And who is this?” she asked, her voice laced with ice.

Before Andrew could reply, a tall, well-dressed girl with perfect posture appeared beside his mom.

“This,” the mother said proudly, gesturing to the girl, “is Elizabeth—the girl your father and I chose for you.”

I felt the air punch out of my lungs.

Well… this just turned into a war.