THE ENEMY’S BRIDE

Chapter 6

Andrew’s POV

She stared at me like I’d just grown two heads. Her wide eyes locked onto mine like I was the crazy one here.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, smirking. “Just sign the papers, baby.”

I leaned back slightly, watching her expression shift as she glanced at the document again. She looked so unsure—like her world had already spun too many times today, and now I’d just added another twist.

She didn’t know it, but this wasn’t about her at all. She was just my escape route. A way out of the marriage my mom was trying to shove down my throat. Some rich girl I didn’t care about. I had no plans of becoming anyone’s obedient husband.

“Come on,” I said, a little impatient. “Just sign the papers and stop looking at me like a dummy.”

Her glare could’ve cut glass.

Damn, she had fire in her. I liked that.

My eyes drifted down—just for a second. She looked… cute. My black shirt swallowed her, hanging off her body in the best kind of way. I swallowed, feeling heat crawl up my neck. I cleared my throat and looked away quickly, trying to focus.

But she suddenly snapped.

“Why should I sign this, huh?!” she shouted, her voice sharp as she threw the papers down on the floor. The pages fluttered across the marble like leaves in the wind.

Well, that escalated.

I looked at her, one brow raised, a smirk still playing on my lips.

This was going to be more fun than I thought.

I sneered and turned away from her, strolling over to the living room like I didn’t have a care in the world. I sank into the couch, poured myself a glass of wine, and took a slow sip. Then I looked at her—really looked at her—over the rim of my glass.

“Really? You sure about that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow with a smirk tugging at my lips. She didn’t know the kind of man I was. I didn’t take no for an answer. Not now. Not ever.

“Yes! I will never accept to marry you—whether fake or not!” she shouted back, turning around like she was ready to storm off.

I let out a low chuckle, amused. “Where do you even think you’re going?”

She froze, turning to face me again, arms folding across her chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I leaned back casually, letting the words roll out like a slow burn. “Well, from what I know… you’ve got nowhere to go. Your husband—oh wait, sorry—your ex-husband is off playing house with someone else. And you? You’re just a little smelly, homeless girl with nowhere to run.”

I watched her face drop as the words sank in. Her arms fell to her sides. The fire in her eyes dimmed.

“You’re right,” she muttered, eyes on the floor, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Of course I’m right,” I cut in sharply, before she could say anything else. She looked like she wanted to argue, to defend herself—but nothing came out.

For a moment, the room went quiet.

And I realized something.

She wasn’t weak… she was just broken.

And broken things? Well, I had a habit of collecting them.

I was still sipping my wine, relaxed, when I heard her say something that made my blood freeze.

“I have nothing to live for. I should just end this pathetic life of mine.”

My eyes widened instantly. The glass almost slipped from my hand as I turned to look at her. She wasn’t yelling or crying—she said it so quietly, so flat, that it hit harder.

Then, without another word, she stood up and ran.

Straight toward the kitchen.

“What the hell—” I muttered, jumping to my feet and chasing after her. I had no idea how she even knew where the kitchen was, but she moved like someone who already knew where everything was.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” I shouted as I entered behind her—and then I saw it.

She was holding a knife. A big one. Her hand trembled, but the way she gripped it said she meant business.

“Hey, calm down…” I said slowly.

“Don’t come closer!” she snapped, the knife pressed near her wrist. “I swear I’ll do it!”

I froze. For the first time in a long time, I felt real fear. Not for me—but for her.

But then something inside me snapped. Who the hell was I, backing down like this? I wasn’t built to cower or beg. I scoffed quietly, grounding myself again before stepping closer.

“I said don’t come any closer! I will do it!” she shouted, her eyes wide with panic.

But I didn’t stop.

I moved fast. In a flash, I closed the space between us and grabbed the knife—right from the blade. Her breath caught in her throat as I yanked it from her hand and flung it across the room.

The pain came next. A sharp sting shot through my hand. I looked down—blood.

A deep cut split across my palm, red dripping onto the clean marble floor like spilled paint.

I didn’t care about the pain.

I just cared that she was still standing. Still breathing.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” I shouted, my voice echoing through the kitchen.

She flinched like I’d slapped her. Her body stiffened, her eyes wide, trembling with fear and confusion—but I didn’t care. Not in that moment. She’d almost stained my house with her blood, and I was pissed.

“If you want to die so badly, then go do it somewhere else! Not in my house!” I barked. “I don’t need your smelly blood dirtying my damn floor!”

I said the most hurtful thing I could think of, spitting the words like venom. I didn’t mean them—well, not all of them—but rage has a way of twisting what you say.

She sniffled, hugging her arms around herself as tears spilled from her eyes. “I’m sorry…” she whispered, broken and soft.

That cracked something in me. Guilt crept up my spine, but I shoved it back down. I wanted to reach out, to pull her into a hug and just… hold her. But I couldn’t bring myself to move.

“Enough with the crying,” I said coldly. “Just tell me—are you going to sign the damn papers or not?”

She looked at me like I wasn’t even human. Like she couldn’t believe how heartless I was.

“I…” she started, then froze. Her gaze dropped.

She was staring at my hand.

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly, pointing at it.

I quickly shifted my arm behind my back, trying to act like it was nothing.

“Oh really? I’m bleeding?” I said with a sarcastic laugh. “Wow, who would’ve guessed? Thanks, Captain Obvious.”

She didn’t smile. She didn’t move. She just kept looking at me—like the blood wasn’t the only thing that was wounded in this room.

She ignored my sarcastic comment and asked quietly, “Where’s the first aid box?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Why?”

She didn’t flinch. “Where is it?” she repeated, this time bolder—more determined. Like patching me up was more important than my attitude.

I scoffed, folding my arms. “In the first cabinet,” I said, pointing lazily toward the kitchen.

She walked over quickly and opened it, standing on her toes to reach for the box. I watched her struggle, rolling my eyes.

“If you can’t reach it, just give up already,” I muttered as I walked over. I pulled it down with ease and handed it to her.

She snatched it from my hands without a word.

“Uh… you’re welcome,” I said, raising a brow at how rough she was being.

Before I could say anything else, she grabbed my injured hand and tugged me with her. I could’ve pulled back—but something about the way she touched me made me follow, even if it was against my will.

She pushed me gently onto the couch and sat in front of me, opening the first aid kit. Her focus was completely on my hand. She didn’t even look at me as she worked.

She began cleaning the cut, carefully wiping the blood away. Her hands were soft. Her fingers brushed against my skin, and then she blew on the wound—a soft, warm breeze that tickled my skin and eased the sting.

For a second, I forgot the pain. I forgot the chaos. I just stared at her in silence, wondering why someone who had every reason to hate me still cared enough to tend to my wounds.

Even after everything… She still had a heart.

There was something about her that amused me—something wild, raw, and real. I knew that if she agreed to sign the contract, I’d finally have some excitement in my life, even if it only lasted two years.

“Sign the contract,” I said calmly, keeping a straight face.

She paused, the gentle breeze of her breath on my wound stopping. Slowly, she looked up at me.

Without a word, she stood from the couch and let go of my hand. A strange emptiness followed her touch. Did I say something wrong? Did I push too far?

I watched silently as she walked over to the desk. She picked up the contract and took a pen. Then, without hesitation, she signed it.

A smirk spread across my face. “You actually signed it,” I said, sounding more surprised than I intended.

She let out a soft sigh. “Do I have a choice right now?” she muttered.

Her words hit me harder than expected. Something about the way she said it… it made it feel like she was choosing between marrying me or falling apart completely. Like this was her last resort, not a decision she wanted.

I hadn’t even forced her. I hadn’t needed to. Life had already done the damage for me. Her ex-husband—that bastard—had broken her, stripped her of everything.

I didn’t need to be another monster in her story.

Still, a part of me… a dark, buried part… wanted to end that chapter of her life for good. I wanted to destroy the man who destroyed her. But not yet. I had to stay quiet for now.

“All done,” her soft voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I looked up at her as she handed me the documents.

“I’m your contract wife now,” she said with a faint, almost forced smile.

I frowned at that. “Don’t try to smile,” I told her flatly.

She nodded slowly, eyes shifting away.

I glanced at her figure again—bare legs, drowning in my shirt. She was staying here now. Which meant she’d need clothes, shoes, everything. “We need to go shopping,” I said casually.

She turned to look at me, but her eyes went straight to my hand. “I should probably bandage that up,” she said softly, reaching for the first aid box again.

Her fingers brushed my skin again, and like before, I felt that strange spark—an electric flicker that wasn’t supposed to be there. Not with her. Not now.

She leaned forward, focused on wrapping the bandage around my hand. Her hair fell gently near my chest. I watched her, the closeness clouding my thoughts. I leaned in, almost without meaning to.

She noticed. Her eyes slowly lifted, meeting mine as she whispered, “What are you doing?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept moving in.

Then—of course—the damn phone rang.

I groaned and pulled it from my pocket. The second I saw who it was, my entire body tensed.

Without another word, I stood up. “I’ll be leaving,” I said, already walking away. “Don’t wait for me. Go to bed.”

She stayed there, looking confused and unsure, while I disappeared into the night—dragged back into a world I didn’t want her involved in. Not yet.