Kiss Me Like You Hate Me

The courthouse steps were wet, slick with October rain. Every step I took felt like the city itself was laughing at me. The camera flashes bounced off the puddles, blinding me. Three weeks of this, hunted like an animal every time I left my apartment. I pulled my coat tighter. Kept my chin up the way Mom had drilled into me before she vanished into her pharmacy bottles. Don’t let them see you break, Isla. A Moretti never breaks. But we had broken. We weren’t even cracked, we were shattered in front of the whole damn city. The voices came at me the second I stepped up onto the stairs: “Isla! How does it feel knowing your father stole fifty million dollars?” “Were you in on it?” “Selling the Hamptons house to pay restitution?” The questions hit like rocks, one after the other. I didn’t flinch. Didn’t give them a sound. I’d already learned the hard way that anything I said could be twisted into something uglier. Silence hurt like swallowing broken glass, but it was all I had left. My phone buzzed in my hand. Marcus, my ex, again. Offering help. I ignored him. Three missed calls from Vivian, who used to be my best friend before my name turned radioactive. Seventeen voicemails from strangers who wanted a piece of me. I climbed those courthouse steps like they weighed a hundred pounds each. Inside, the place smelled like damp marble and dust and something bitter that clung to your throat. I found courtroom 4B and slipped into the back row. I didn’t want to be seen. I just needed to see him. My dad. He looked… old. Smaller than he’d ever been. His suit hung on him, not like power, but like fabric. This was the man who taught me how to tie sailor’s knots, who used to tuck me in at night with pirate stories, who swore the world couldn’t touch me as long as he was here. And now he looked like somebody had already taken everything from him. The prosecutor started talking, sharp and smug, running through the list of charges. Embezzlement. Fraud. Money laundering. Fifty million dollars funneled through fake companies. Numbers that made the people around me shift in their seats, like they were listening to a true crime podcast live. My dad’s lawyer, Patterson, tired, gray, chosen out of desperation more than skill, stood and objected. “Alleged evidence, Your Honor. My client maintains his innocence.” Even he didn’t sound like he believed it. Then I heard the name. Cross Maritime Holdings. I felt it like a slap. Adrian Cross. His empire. His company. The family name I’d grown up hearing in curses. My father’s rival, the man who’d built a dynasty out of the ashes of his family’s old business, the ashes my father was blamed for creating. If Dad had stolen from Cross Maritime, then Adrian Cross had already won. Finally. Completely. Two hours of legal jargon later, bail was set at five million. Five million we didn’t have, would never have. Not when every dollar was locked up or gone. The gavel came down. My dad turned. Our eyes met for the first time in weeks. His mouth moved. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Then the cuffs. Then he was gone. I sat there long after the courtroom emptied, staring at the table where he’d sat. Trying to figure out how to keep breathing. The cleaning crew shuffled in. They didn’t ask me to leave. Maybe they knew that look, someone who had nowhere else to go. My phone buzzed again. Unknown number. Miss Moretti. I believe we need to talk. A.C. I deleted it instantly. I wasn’t playing that game. But when I stepped outside, there he was. Adrian Cross. Leaning against a car that screamed money, looking like every cover of every business magazine I’d ever seen, but worse, because up close he was… real. Too real. The scar along his face, the way he stood like he could go from casual to violent in one second. His eyes, storm-gray, locked on me. “Miss Moretti.” His voice was smooth, controlled. Like he owned every word before he spoke it. “Mr. Cross.” I didn’t stop walking. “I sent you a message.” “I got it.” “You didn’t respond.” I stopped. Looked at him. He was watching me like I was already a piece on his chessboard. “What do you want?” I asked. His mouth curved, not into a smile, not really. “To offer you a solution to your problem.” “I don’t have a problem.” “You do. Your father is going to prison. You don’t have money, or a job, or any way to fight back. Soon you’ll be lucky to afford rent in Queens.” His tone didn’t even change, just facts, like reading the weather report. And the worst part? He was right. “What kind of solution?” He pushed off the car and came closer. Slow. Deliberate. Close enough for me to catch his cologne, expensive, sharp, unfairly good. “Marriage.” The word hit the air like a dropped blade. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “You need resources. I need a wife. It’s practical.” I laughed. Couldn’t help it. It came out sharp, almost mean. “You’re insane.” “I’m serious.” “You’re asking me to marry you.” “I’m asking you to enter a contract that involves marriage. Yes.” “This is insane. I don’t even know you.” “You know enough. You know I can fix things. You know I can give you what you need. And you know you’re running out of time.” God, I hated that he was right. “Why? Why me? Why would you help me?” “Our families have history,” he said, something flickering in his eyes for half a second. “But this isn’t about that. This is business.” “What kind of business?” “The kind that looks better when the man sitting at the table is married. The kind where a polished wife is an asset. The kind where I need someone who knows how to play the part without getting emotionally tangled.” His stare cut right through me. “And you think that’s me?” “I think you’re desperate enough. And smart enough not to break the rules.” “What rules?” “One year. You live with me. Play the wife. Show up at events. I’ll take care of your father’s case. At the end of twelve months, we split. You walk away with money and freedom.” It sounded perfect. Which meant it was poison. “What’s the catch?” “No emotions. No complications. Strictly business.” I just stared at him. At the suit, the watch, the car. The scar. The control radiating off him. He was offering me everything I needed. And all I had to do was sell myself. “I need to think about it.” “Of course.” He pulled out a card, thick cream, embossed letters, expensive enough to feel heavy in my hand. Adrian Cross, CEO, Cross Maritime Holdings. He turned to leave, then stopped. “Your father’s arraignment is next week. After that, bail is almost impossible. Time isn’t on your side.” And then he was gone. I stood there in the rain with his card in my hand, trying to convince myself I had other choices. That there was another way out. There wasn’t. I slipped his number into my phone and walked toward the subway. Already knowing what I’d do. Because when everything is already burning, what’s one more mistake?