100 Days With My Nemesis

~004~ FACE-OFF

NORA

I stare at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. I feel sick to my stomach. But I curl my fists, refusing to show it.

"Start from the beginning. Tell me everything," I spit, my voice unsteady.

"We got married last night, Nora," he says. "You were quite enthusiastic. That's all you need to know."

A wild laugh bubbles out of me. I stumble up from the floor on shaky legs, the silk slip riding up my thighs, and march straight into his personal space. I jab my finger right up in his face, inches from that annoying perfect nose.

"Married?" I hiss, my voice cracking with disbelief. "Dream on! I'd rather lick a toilet seat clean than be married to you."

God, I sound like a childish brat even to my own ears, but the words keep tumbling out. I can't stop them. "I refuse to be married to a freak like you!"

Marcellus's smirk deepens, those dark blue eyes glinting with an eerie shimmer that makes my stomach flip. "Freak?"

"Yes, freak!" I'm on a roll now, years of buried resentment exploding like cheap champagne.

"You used to sabotage every single one of my videos by 'accidentally' leaving negative comments from fake accounts. You told the entire campus I was sleeping with professors for grades just because I beat you in that stupid debate. You made my life hell for two years straight, Marcellus! You were a walking sabotage machine!"

He throws his head back and laughs. A low, rich sound that vibrates through the suite and does unforgivable things to my body. When he looks at me again, his eyes are sparkling with dark delight.

"Listen to you go," he drawls, stepping closer until I can feel the heat rolling off his bare chest. "Reciting every little thing I did like it's your favorite bedtime story. You must adore me, little wolf, holding onto those precious memories so tightly."

My face burns. I'm pissed—furious, actually—and before I can think, I'm clawing at the massive diamond on my finger, trying to yank it off. "This is bullshit. I'm done. I'm not—"

His hand shoots out lightning-fast, wrapping around my wrist in an iron grip.

He leans in, so close that I can smell his woodsy amber cologne mixed with hotel soap, and his eyes go frosty. All the teasing vanishes.

"Don't make me give you a permanent ring."

"W-what?" My voice comes out small and breathless.

Marcellus doesn't blink. “You heard me."

“What? It’s not like you’re going to drill the ring into my bone!”

“Try me.”

My knees threaten to give out again, but I lock them. His grip is firm, not painful, but the threat hangs heavy between us.

"Now, love," he continues, his voice dipping into that warm purr that used to drive me insane, "here's what's going to happen. You're going to go home and prepare for our wedding, which is happening tomorrow."

I part my lips to protest, and he shushes me by merely lifting a finger where a matching ring is glinting.

Then gently, he runs his finger over my cheek down to my jaw.

"You will slip on the dress I send you and get ready. I will wait at the altar for you. Think wisely and make the right choice."

The threat he doesn’t say is not lost on me.

My breathing turns heavy and ragged. I stare into those bleak, bottomless eyes and see nothing but a frigid certainty. No bluff. No mercy.

And then it hits me. The absurdity. The terror. The sheer insanity of standing here in a Vegas hotel suite, half-naked, arguing with a walking nightmare.

I burst into hysterical laughter. It starts low and builds until my shoulders are shaking, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, streaming down my face. I laugh so hard that my stomach hurts.

When I finally manage to speak, gasping between sobs of laughter, I look him dead in the eye and say it.

"No."

His lips curl slightly, his gaze softening in a way that sends chills down my spine.

“All right,” he hums in a low voice and slowly releases me.

And for some reason, his quick acceptance terrifies me even more than if he had tried to counter me.

...

The drive home from the airport felt like a fever dream on fast-forward. I barely remember packing my things, storming out of that Vegas suite, or the private car that somehow appeared the second I stepped outside.

Marcellus hadn't stopped me. He'd just watched me leave with that icy satisfaction, like he already knew I'd come crawling back.

Now I'm pushing open the heavy front door of our family home back in NYC, my heels clicking against marble like tiny gunshots. My head is still pounding, and this ridiculous diamond feels like it weighs ten pounds.

Jordan is sprawled on the couch in the sitting room, his long legs dangling over the armrest, completely absorbed in his phone. He doesn't even look up at first.

"Where the hell did you go?" he asks, scrolling. "You weren't picking up any of my calls. I thought Sebastian finally snapped and buried you in a ditch or something."

I don't answer. I just stand there, trying to figure out how to explain the chaos my life has become.

Jordan finally glances up. His eyes drop to my left hand and widen like saucers. "Holy s**t. Is that—"

He sits up fast, a wicked smirk spreading across his face. "Did you run off to some private island and get married? Mum is going to be so pissed she wasn't invited. This is gold."

Before I can even flip him off, heels click down the grand staircase. Mum appears, elegant as always in her blue silk blouse, one perfectly arched brow raised.

"Is that true?" she asks. “Did my baby really get married without me?”

I groan and walk straight into her arms, burying my face in her shoulder like I'm fifteen again. She smells like Chanel and sugar. For a second, I let myself melt.

"Where's Daddy?" I mumble against her blouse.

Mum rubs slow circles on my back, the way she's done since I was little. "In his study, love. What's wrong? You're shaking."

I shake my head, pulling back before I crack completely. "I'll be right back."

I take the stairs two at a time, my emerald dress from last night now feeling ridiculous in the daylight.

Daddy's study door is ajar. I slip inside and wrap my arms around him from behind his leather chair, resting my chin on his shoulder. He smells like old books, mint and expensive perfume.

"Squirrel Junior," he says warmly, patting my arm without looking away from his laptop. "How was the gala?"

I groan loudly. "Don't get me started."

He hums, the way he does when he knows I'm avoiding something. Then he clicks play on his laptop.

My stomach drops.

The viral video fills the screen. Marcellus, shirtless and smirking. "I'd like everyone to meet my wife... She said yes. Loudly. Multiple times."

Daddy pauses it.

The silence that follows is… heavy.

"What is going on, Nora?" His voice is calm, but I hear the steel underneath. "What happened with Sebastian? And why is he, of all people, married to you?"

I pull back slowly, my heart pounding. "Why do you sound like you know who he is?"

Daddy clenches his jaw, staring at the frozen image of Marcellus on the screen. His knuckles go white around the edge of the desk.

"Because I do."

I blink. "What?"

He turns in his chair to face me fully. His expression is darker than I've seen in years.

"As far as I know, that boy is my father's spawn."

My eyes go wide, the room tilting for the second time today.

"What?! As in my... uncle?!"

My father doesn’t blink. It means he’s not joking.

Marcellus Gregory—the man who supposedly died, the man who just threatened to drill a ring into my bone—is my uncle?

What the f**k?