~005~ TRICK OR TREATS

NORA

         I finally collapse onto my bed, the familiar scent of my childhood room doing nothing to calm the storm in my head. Two Tylenol and a glass of water later, and my skull is still spinning like a broken carousel. I refuse to think about the fact that I might or might not be legally married to the bastard who might or might not be my uncle.

I pull the covers up to my chin, praying for oblivion, when a knock sounds on the door.

I groan loudly. "Go away, Jordan."

He knocks again. Persistent little shit.

With all the grace of a hungover zombie, I drag myself out of bed and yank the door open. My brother stands there, holding a massive white box tied with a silky ribbon.

"Delivery came for you," he says, his eyebrows raised. "It's heavy as hell. Some fancy courier dropped it off. Mum's already asking questions."

I take the box without a word and shut the door in his face. My hands tremble as I carry it to the bed and tear it open.

Inside lies the most beautiful wedding dress I've ever seen. Soft ivory lace with delicate beading along the bodice, flowing into a skirt that's elegant but not overwhelming.

Exactly my taste. Romantic without being princess-y.

At the bottom of the box sits a pair of brand-new white sneakers, simple and somehow perfect.

A small cream envelope rests on top.

I pull out the note, my pulse spiking.

See you tomorrow, little wolf. Don't be late.

— Mars

Rage simmers inside of me. I rip the note into tiny shreds, letting the pieces scatter across the floor like confetti from hell.

Then I shove the dress aside and flop back down, pulling the covers over my head.

I just need sleep. Tomorrow I'll figure out how to get rid of this nightmare.

But my phone won't stop buzzing.

I grab it, squinting against the bright screen.

Notifications flood in. All of which are brand deals.

New couple brand deals. Cooking lines wanting "the newlyweds" for collabs. A luxury watch company offering a fortune for engagement content. Even a major streaming platform sliding into my DMs about a reality series.

The anguish hits me like a truck. My carefully built career—the one I fought Sebastian over—is now exploding because of him. Because the whole world thinks I married a six-foot-something disaster with criminally gorgeous cheekbones.

Yay me.

Maybe... maybe Sebastian can help. He knows the brands. He knows the contracts. Four years together has to count for something, right? I open I*******m, ready to message him.

And that's when I see the stories.

Sebastian laughing on a yacht with some redhead. Sebastian at a karaoke with another woman. Sebastian at a rooftop bar, feeding strawberries to a blonde. All posted in the last few hours.

He's not spiraling. He's thriving. Moving on like I was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

Anger consumes me first. Then the tears come, silent and ugly, soaking into my pillow. I can't believe I actually considered crawling back.

After everything—the sabotage of my dreams, the body-shaming, the constant shrinking—I still thought he might fight for me.

Isn't that how relationships are supposed to work? You hit rock bottom and claw your way back together?

Guess not.

My phone buzzes again. This time, a text from an unknown number. I already know who the fucker is.

[Unknown: Are you getting cold feet already? Unfortunately, you have no choice.]

I type back furiously, my thumbs flying.

[Me: I'm not doing any wedding. Go to hell.]

His reply is almost instant.

[Unknown: Is that so? I guess I'll have to go to Daddy dearest and tell him you're carrying my baby.]

My stomach drops. I bolt upright in bed.

[Me: WHAT?! I didn't sleep with you!]

[Unknown: You didn't?]

Oh my God.

I hold a shaking hand to my mouth, a sob rising in my throat. Did I really fuck him? HIM? What if he's right?

What if he really got me pregnant?

My life is ruined, isn't it?

With more tears slipping down my face, I hit call. The line rings once before he picks up. My voice shakes so badly I can barely get the words out.

"Did you use a condom?" I demand, fresh tears welling up. "Tell me right now, you bastard."

He's quiet for a long second. Then, softly, he says, "Are you crying, little wolf?"

I sniffle, hating how weak I sound. "Answer me!"

His voice goes even lower, gentle in a way that startles me. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. That wasn't a funny joke."

I blink, caught off guard by the apology.

Marcellus Gregory is... apologizing?

"What do you mean?" I whisper.

"We didn't have sex," he replies. "If we did, I would want you to remember every nanosecond of it. Every touch. Every sound you made. I wouldn't let you forget a single second."

Heat floods my face. My body reacts, a flush creeping down my neck, my thighs pressing together under the sheets. I'm flustered, embarrassed, and annoyingly... relieved.

"You're sick," I mutter, but there's no real heat behind it. My voice comes out breathy instead.

He chuckles. "Get some rest, wife. You have a big day tomorrow."

The line goes dead.

I stare at my phone, my heart racing for reasons I refuse to examine. The wedding dress lies crumpled on the floor. My career is actually taking off for unwanted reasons. My ex is living his best life. And my "husband" just went from terrifying to... something far more dangerous.

I pull the covers over my head again, but sleep feels further away than ever.

Fuck my life.

...

I wake up with a jolt, sunlight in my face. For a second I just lie there, blinking at the ceiling in pure disbelief.

I actually slept. Despite the madness that happened yesterday, I somehow passed out.

My phone is vibrating up on the nightstand. It's a call from Lisa, my manager.

I drag a hand down my face and respond.

"Nora, finally!" Lisa's voice is half-excited, half-stressed. "The cooking show—Taste of Tomorrow—they want you."

I sit up straighter. "Wait, really? That's amazing—"

"But," she cuts in, "they only greenlit it after a personal referral. From Marcellus Gregory. As a favor to his wife."

The hope dies instantly. Heat rushes to my face. "He did what?"

"He treated it like you were some accessory he was cashing in for. I was pissed on your behalf at first, but then..." Lisa pauses, sounding genuinely impressed.

"Nora, he showed up himself with a full professional file. Market analysis, engagement breakdowns, and projected growth for your brand. All prepared by him. He didn't just drop your name. He built a whole case for why you and your... new husband would be perfect for their young couples cooking show."

I'm speechless. Marcellus prepared an entire file? On me? The same man who threatened to ruin my life knew more about my career than the man I'd dated for four years.

The call ends with Lisa gushing about schedules and contracts, but I barely hear her. I'm still staring at the wall, shocked.

Then another notification pops up.

Sebastian's I*******m story.

He's at some rooftop bar at noon, laughing with his childhood friend, drinks in hand, looking like he's having the time of his life.

It pisses me off more than it should.

A loud knock on my door pulls me out of my spiral.

"Honey?" Mum's voice filters through. "Sebastian is downstairs. He's here with his family. They want to talk about finalizing the wedding plans."

I freeze. What?

They still think the wedding is with Sebastian? Of course they do. I never explained the chaos.

"I'll be down soon," I call.

My eyes slide to the beautiful dress and white sneakers still lying on the chair where I shoved them last night.

A slow smirk tugs at my lips.

Fine. I can kill two birds with one stone.

Sebastian wants a show? I'll give him one.

Marcellus Gregory wants me at the altar? Fine. But who says I have to say ‘I do?’