MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

ONE BED LEFT

**Chapter 4: ONE BED LEFT

**Diego POV**

The door clicks shut.

Silence hits us. It's louder than all the shouting we just did in the lobby.

I stare at the door. Then at her. Then at the single bedroom down the hall.

You've got to be kidding me. One room. One bed. With her.

Before I can even think, her voice cuts through the air like she's calling room service.

"I am taking the bed," she announces, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. She walks toward the bedroom, her floral suitcase bumping against her leg.

I'm so shocked I almost laugh. "Nope."

She stops and turns around. Hands on her hips. She looks at me like I just said the sky is green.

"Why?" she says. "Do you not have any courtesy? You are supposed to sacrifice for a woman, okay? I am taking the bed."

If she was a normal woman, I would. My mother raised me better than that. I'd take the couch without thinking.

But she's not normal. She's a prideful, spoiled brat who's been a pain since baggage claim. She doesn't deserve courtesy. She needs a reality check.

"Nope," I say again. I cross my arms.

That's all she needs. She rushes past me into the bedroom and throws herself onto the bed. Arms and legs spread out like a starfish claiming land.

It's a huge king bed. Dark wood frame. Grey and black sheets. Clean lines. No flowers. No frills. It's a man's room. My kind of room. Not hers.

"This is mine now," she says, looking at me with a smug smirk. "You can sleep on the couch outside."

That does it.

I didn't come to Bali for a vacation. Not for beaches. Not for yoga. I came here for a reason. I have a task. One I cannot mess up.

That's why I'm using a name that isn't mine. That's why my phone is off. That's why I paid cash. That's why I need silence and a room where no one knows my face.

From the second I landed, she's been on my nerves.

At the airport, I ignored her. I was in a hurry. She walked straight into me while staring at her phone, then acted like I attacked her. I called her princess because that's what she looked like. Someone who's never carried her own bag, never heard no.

At the taxi stand, fine, she called first. But I saw the taxi first from farther away. It wasn't about the taxi. It was about control. For once I wanted to win something small.

Then she called me a serial killer. A serial killer? I'm not broke. I don't need wallets. I need people to leave me alone, not collect them.

I watched her get in that second taxi. I was left under that yellow light like an i***t. I had to walk to the other end of the lot and beg a driver who was closing up. I paid him three times the normal fare in cash because my cards are being watched. I can't use them without someone tracking me.

Then at the hotel, I see her at reception. Same flight, same fight, same hotel. I just wanted my key and twelve hours of sleep. But she wouldn't stop. She accused me of stalking her in the lobby.

And now this. Sharing a room. I'd rather sleep under a bridge in Ubud.

I walk to the foot of the bed and look down at her. She's still lying there, smug. Her cheap sundress is wrinkled. Her hair is falling out of its bun. She has a smudge on her cheek from the airport.

"Get up," I say.

"No," she says, not moving. "I was here first. It's my bed."

"This is not happening," I tell her. My voice goes calm. "I am tired. I had a long day. I am not sleeping on that couch."

"Then sleep on the floor," she says with a shrug. "I don't care. As long as you don't sleep in here."

I look at the bed, then at her. The bed is huge. Big enough for four people. The idea that she takes it all while I sleep on a couch made for decoration is ridiculous.

"Fine," I say. "You want the bed? You get half. I take the other half."

Her eyes go wide. Real panic flashes for a second before the attitude comes back. "What? No! Absolutely not! I am not sleeping in the same bed as you, you... you mean head!"

"Then get off and take the couch," I say. "Those are your two choices. We share the bed, or you sleep in the living room. Your call."

She sits up, glaring at me. I can see the fight in her head. Pride versus comfort. I know which one wins. No way a princess like her sleeps on a couch when there's a four-thousand-dollar mattress right here. She's tired. I can see it in the dark circles under her eyes.

She doesn't answer. She just scoots over to the far edge of the bed, as far as she can go without falling off. She pulls a pillow to her chest like a shield and lies down facing away from me. Her back is stiff as a board.

Not a yes. But it's an acceptance.

I go to the closet. It's empty. Good. I put my briefcase inside and lock it. Old habit.

I take off my shoes and my shirt, leave my undershirt on. I don't look at her as I walk to the other side of the bed.

I pull back the covers and slide in. I stay on my side. I leave a good two feet of no man's land between us. The sheets are cool. The mattress is firm.

I can feel her tense up next to me. A warm spot of anger just a few feet away.

This is going to be the longest night of my life.

I stare at the ceiling. The fan turns slowly. Outside I hear the ocean hitting the rocks. Inside I hear her breathing, fast and shallow, like she's trying not to cry or trying not to kill me. Probably both.

For some reason that makes me feel less alone. For the last few weeks everyone has wanted something from me. She just wants me out of her bed. It's simple. It's honest.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it out of habit.

No name. Just a number I don't have saved. One message.

*Are you there?*

I stare at it for a second. My jaw tightens. I type back fast with one thumb. I don't write in English.

*bersaglio agganciato.*

I lock the phone and turn it face down. Hard. I slide it under the pillow. I don't need to think about that here.

She shifts. I think she's asleep, then she speaks. Her voice is small and muffled by the pillow.

"Do not try anything," she whispers.

I almost smile in the dark. "Do not worry, princess. You are not my type."

"Good," she says fast. "Because you are definitely not mine."

We lie there in silence again. Two strangers in a honeymoon suite. Both running from lives that are too big for us. Both pretending we're not scared.

Just as I'm finally drifting, her breathing changes. She's asleep. And in her sleep she mumbles something, soft and broken, in Italian.

"Per favore, non farmi sposarlo."

Please, don't make me marry him.

I turn my head and look at her back in the dark. The tough girl from the airport, the taxi, the lobby, is gone. Her shoulders shake a little. For a second she just looks twenty and terrified.

I don't know who she's running from. I don't know why she's here with a fake name and a suitcase full of cash and that look in her eyes like a cornered animal.

But I know that look. I've seen it in the mirror every morning since I took this task.