Hate You, Marry Me

Episode 5

JADE's POV

"Jade... Jade, wake up. We're here."

Silas’ deep voice pulled me from the haze of sleep as the car came to a stop. I blinked groggily, struggling to process where I was.

How long had I been out?

I let out a breath, relieved that the memory of that night—of that storm, of Silas’s voice chasing after me—was just a dream now, a relic from years ago. After that night, he disappeared—no goodbyes, no explanations. He stopped coming to school, transferred elsewhere, and eventually left the country for university. Silas had vanished, and for a time, I’d thought I was finally free of him.

Even though I hated him, a twisted sense of familiarity lingered. He’d been part of my life for as long as I could remember—first as a childhood friend, then the obsessive shadow in my school years. And after the anger and resentment faded, I found myself wondering about him. Not often, not openly, but occasionally, when the days were too quiet or when Skylar, his sister, mentioned him during our catch-ups. She’d tell me snippets—how he was thriving, how he was doing well overseas. That was enough for me. I never called him, never sought him out.

Until that stupid, reckless night.

It was New Year’s Eve, and I’d had too much to drink at a party. The crowd and noise were suffocating, the air heavy with alcohol. The snow falling outside was the only thing grounding me. Without thinking, I escaped to the rooftop terrace of the club, the icy wind biting against my skin. And then, for reasons I still couldn’t comprehend, I called him. After four years of no communication, I called him.

Maybe I’d been craving chaos, or maybe I was just drunk enough to let my insanity take the wheel. When he answered, his voice was laced with shock.

“Jade?” He sounded confused, concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“You’re alive,” I said, my voice slurring slightly. “Well, you must be, since you managed to answer your phone.”

“Are you drunk?” His tone shifted, the concern sharpening. “Jade, where are you?”

I laughed bitterly. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just wondering if you’re still breathing. Didn’t you promise me you’d disappear if you ever died?”

His silence on the other end was deafening, but I pressed on.

“Live, Silas,” I said, my words tumbling out like a taunt. “Have a long, happy life. Happy New Year.”

The countdown to midnight ended, fireworks burst in the distance, and before he could say another word, I hung up. It was impulsive, irrational, but for some reason, it felt good at the moment.

What I didn’t expect was for Silas to come back into my life after that. Slowly, at first—reaching out, reappearing as if he’d never left. He was quieter now, more composed, but beneath the polished exterior, he was still the same Silas. Intense. Unrelenting.

He stepped out, retrieving both of our overnight bags from the back seat before coming to my door. With a smooth motion, he opened it, holding his hand out to help me out.

I stared at him for a beat, his extended hand hovering in the air. His expression was calm, expectant, but his dark eyes carried that familiar weight, the silent demand that I follow his lead.

“I don’t want to hold your hand,” I said stubbornly, brushing past him as I climbed out of the car. I slammed the door shut behind me with more force than necessary, the sound cutting through the cold morning air.

"I love your feisty side the most," Silas murmured as he locked the car, his tone casual yet carrying that undercurrent of something heavier, something unspoken.

We stood still for a moment, the snow drifting down in lazy, delicate flakes around us. The narrow path to the house stretched ahead, yet neither of us moved. Instead, we stood there, locked in a weird moment, our eyes meeting.

“Let’s not make my parents suspicious,” he said, breaking the silence. His voice was softer now as he extended his hand toward me.

This time, I didn’t argue. I placed my hand in his, and as our fingers intertwined, his grip tightened possessively. It was unsettling how natural it felt, as though my hand belonged there, as though this touch had always been inevitable.

The warmth of his palm against mine sent an unexpected shiver through me, but it wasn’t the cold that made my breath hitch. It was the way his touch seemed to claim me, his fingers curling over mine like he was staking a claim on something more than just a gesture. It was maddening, the way even this simple contact seemed to unravel something inside me, as though it wasn’t enough—like his touch was meant to go beyond this, and the restraint in it set my nerves on fire.

Silas had a way of messing with my equilibrium.

As we reached the door, the weight of what we were about to do pressed against me. The façade we were about to construct wasn’t just a harmless charade.

Silas reached for the doorbell, pulling me closer to his side. His touch was magnetic, as though the closer I got, the harder it became to pull away.

“Ready?” he whispered, his voice a low murmur near my ear. His breath brushed against my neck, hot and searing despite the icy air around us. A flicker of warmth ignited in the pit of my stomach, spreading outward, leaving me almost dizzy.

“Yes,” I whispered back, forcing steadiness into my voice even though my body betrayed me. My pulse raced, and I clenched my jaw, determined not to let him see the effect he had on me.

From the moment he kissed me, my hatred for him felt as if it had morphed into something different. I still hated him, of course—there was no question about that—but there was an odd undercurrent to that hatred now, a simmering desire that I couldn’t ignore, no matter how much I wanted to. And that? That unsettled me more than anything else. It wasn’t something I welcomed, nor something I could rationalize, but it lingered, weaving itself into the fabric of my emotions in ways I didn’t understand and certainly didn’t like.

The door swung open, and suddenly we were no longer alone. Silas’s family greeted us like it was the grandest occasion in years, their smiles beaming even in the faint glow of the early morning light. Despite the early hour, they were dressed impeccably, their excitement palpable.

“Here come the bride and groom!” Skylar’s voice rang out with mischievous glee as she popped a tiny confetti cannon, the colorful pieces floating through the air. She giggled, clearly reveling in the chaos.

“Skylar,” Silas said in mock exasperation, but there was a softness in his tone as he glanced at his sister.

His parents, however, were the ones who caught my attention. Their faces glowed with genuine joy, the kind of happiness that radiated warmth and acceptance.

And that’s when it hit me—hard and fast, like the crack of thunder. This was a mistake. His parents didn’t deserve this. They didn’t deserve to be pulled into my tangled mess of lies.

I forced a smile onto my face, but it felt brittle, like glass that could shatter at any moment. Silas’s hand squeezed mine reassuringly, as though he could sense my hesitation, as though he was grounding me—or anchoring me, depending on how you looked at it.

“Welcome home, you two!” his mother said warmly.

The moment I saw the serene happiness etched across Silas’s parents’ faces, the full weight of my mistake crashed down on me.

Their genuine joy, so pure and untainted, was like a dagger to my conscience.

And that terrified me more than anything else.