MARRIED TO MY ENEMY

ONE BED LEFT

The door clicks shut behind the receptionist.

The silence that follows is louder than all the shouting we did in the lobby. It feels heavy. Awkward. Dangerous.

I stare at the closed door for a second, then at her, then down the short hallway toward the single bedroom.

You’ve got to be f*****g kidding me.

One room. One bed. With her.

Before I can even process it, her voice cuts through the air like she’s ordering room service.

“I am taking the bed,” she announces, like it’s already decided. She grabs her ugly pink suitcase and marches straight toward the bedroom, wheels bumping loudly against the floor.

I almost laugh. Almost.

“Nope,” I say.

She stops and spins around, hands on her hips, staring at me like I just told her the sky is green.

“Why not?” she demands. “Don’t you have any courtesy? You’re supposed to sacrifice for a woman. I’m taking the bed.”

If she were a normal girl, I would. My mother raised me right. I’d take the couch without complaint.

But she’s not normal. She’s a spoiled, entitled princess who’s been a massive pain in my ass since the moment she crashed into me at baggage claim. She doesn’t deserve courtesy. She needs a reality check.

“Nope,” I repeat, crossing my arms.

That’s all it takes. She huffs loudly and rushes past me into the bedroom, throwing herself dramatically onto the king-sized bed. She spreads her arms and legs like a starfish claiming territory.

It’s a beautiful bed — dark wood frame, crisp grey and black sheets, clean and masculine. My kind of room. Definitely not hers.

“This is mine now,” she says with a smug little smirk. “You can sleep on the couch outside.”

That does it.

I didn’t come to Bali for vacation. I didn’t come for beaches, yoga, or overpriced cocktails. I came here with a purpose. A job. One I cannot afford to mess up.

That’s why I’m using a name that isn’t really mine. That’s why my real phone is off. That’s why I paid cash for everything. That’s why I need quiet, privacy, and a room where no one knows my face.

And from the second I landed, this girl has been nothing but trouble.

At the airport, I ignored her. I was in a hurry. She walked straight into me while staring at her phone like the world revolved around her, then acted like I was the villain. I called her “princess” because that’s exactly what she looked like — someone who’s never carried her own suitcase or heard the word “no.”

At the taxi stand, she called first, sure. But I saw that cab from farther away. It wasn’t really about the ride. It was about control. For once, I wanted to win something small.

Then she had the nerve to call me a serial killer in the lobby. A serial killer. I don’t need to steal wallets. I need people to leave me the hell alone.

I watched her steal that second taxi and leave me standing there like an i***t under the yellow light. I had to walk to the far end of the lot and practically beg a driver who was about to close up. I paid him triple the normal fare in cash because my cards are being watched. One wrong move and I’m done.

And now this.

I walk to the foot of the bed and look down at her. She’s still sprawled out, looking smug as hell. Her cheap sundress is wrinkled, her dark hair is falling out of its messy bun, and there’s a small smudge on her cheek from the long journey. She looks tired. Really tired.

“Get up,” I say quietly.

“No,” she replies, not moving an inch. “I was here first. It’s my bed.”

“This is not happening,” I tell her, keeping my voice calm. “I’m exhausted. I had a long day. I’m not sleeping on that tiny decorative couch.”

“Then sleep on the floor,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t care. As long as you stay out of here.”

I glance at the bed again. It’s massive easily big enough for four people. The idea that she gets the whole thing while I squeeze onto a couch is ridiculous.

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

Her eyes go wide. Real panic flashes across her face for a second before the attitude returns. “What? No! Absolutely not! I am not sleeping in the same bed as you, you… you mean-headed jerk!”

“Then get off and take the couch,” I reply. “Those are your choices. We share the bed, or you sleep in the living room. Your call, princess.”

She sits up slowly, glaring daggers at me. I can practically see the war happening in her head pride versus pure exhaustion. I already know which one will win. No way a girl like her is sleeping on a couch when there’s a four-thousand-dollar mattress right here. She’s running on fumes. The dark circles under her eyes give her away.

She doesn’t say yes. She just scoots dramatically to the far edge of the bed, as far away as possible without falling off. She grabs a pillow and hugs it to her chest like a shield, then lies down facing the wall. Her back is stiff as a board.

Not a yes. But it’s acceptance.

I go to the closet, put my briefcase inside, and lock it. Old habits die hard. I take off my shoes and peel off my wrinkled white shirt, leaving my black 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 strictly on my side, leaving a solid two feet of empty space between us. The sheets are cool. The mattress is firm and comfortable.

I can feel her tense up beside me. A warm, angry little ball of tension just a few feet away.

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

I stare at the ceiling. The fan spins slowly above us. Outside, the ocean crashes gently against the rocks. Inside, I can hear her breathing fast, shallow, like she’s trying not to cry or trying not to kill me. Probably both.

For some strange reason, it makes me feel a little less alone. For the last few weeks, everyone around me has wanted something. She just wants me out of her bed. It’s simple. Honest.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it without thinking.

No name. Just an unknown number.

Are you there?

My jaw tightens. I type back quickly with one thumb, in Italian.

bersaglio agganciato.

I lock the phone and turn it face down, sliding it under my pillow. I don’t need to think about that message right now.

She shifts beside me. I think she’s finally asleep when her voice comes again small, muffled by the pillow.

“Do not try anything,” she whispers.

I almost smile in the dark. “Don’t worry, princess. You’re not my type.”

“Good,” she says quickly. “Because you are definitely not mine either.”

We fall back into silence. Two strangers in a honeymoon suite. Both clearly running from something too big. Both pretending we’re not scared.

Just as I’m finally drifting off, her breathing changes. She’s asleep. 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 slightly and look at her back in the darkness. The tough, loud girl from the airport, the taxi, and the lobby has disappeared. Right now she just looks twenty years old and terrified. Her shoulders tremble a little like she was afraid.

“Spoilt little brat.”i murmured as I covered her with her blanket she had pushed away from her.