The Photo That Shouldn't Exist

Chapter 3: The Photo That Shouldn't Exist

I should have closed the door and pretended I never saw it.

Instead, I picked up the photo like it would burn me.

Me. Twelve years old. Braces, frizzy hair, holding a plastic spelling bee trophy like it was an Oscar.

I remembered that day. I had cried because I thought I'd lose. Ethan — thirteen then, already tall and annoying — had sat with me behind the school canteen and drilled me for three hours.

"Spell 'antidisestablishmentarianism' again, Enemy," he had ordered.

"You spell it! You're the smart one!" I had shouted.

And he did. Perfectly. Then he made me spell it until I got it right.

I won because of him. And he never came to watch me win. He said spelling bees were boring.

So why did he have this photo? Framed? On his desk? With "My enemy. Mine." written on the back like some possessive psychopath?

The office door clicked.

I jumped and dropped the frame. It clattered on the desk.

Ethan stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a black t-shirt, hair wet from a shower. Without the suit, he looked less like a billionaire and more like the boy who used to steal my bike.

"You have a really bad habit of not following rules, Sienna," he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was tired.

"I — I was looking for the bathroom," I lied, terribly.

"In my office? The bathroom is the other way."

He walked in and picked up the frame. Looked at it for a second, then put it face-down in his drawer. Like he was hiding it.

"That's not what you think it is," he said.

"Then what is it? Your weird shrine for your enemy?"

He laughed once. No humor. "Maybe I keep photos of all my enemies."

"I'm not an enemy. I'm your wife. On paper."

"Right. My wife on paper who broke into my office on day one."

We stared at each other. The mansion was too quiet.

"Your father is out of surgery," he said suddenly. "It went well. He's in recovery. Your mother is with him. The doctor said his heart is stronger than they expected."

My hand flew to my mouth. "He's okay? Really?"

Ethan nodded. "He's okay. I told the hospital to put your mother in the suite next to him so she can rest. And I paid the bill. The whole thing."

I started crying. Ugly, real crying. Not the pretty kind in movies. The kind where snot comes out and your shoulders shake.

I hated crying in front of Ethan. I had never cried in front of him, not even when he humiliated me at eighteen.

"Hey. Hey, Enemy," he said softly, and before I could step back, he pulled me into his chest.

He smelled like fresh soap and something expensive. His arms were strong. He was warm.

"Thank you," I sobbed into his shirt. "Thank you, thank you..."

He didn't say "you're welcome" or "it's nothing." He just held me and rubbed my back in slow circles, the same way he did when I fell off my bike when we were seven and scraped my knee.

"Don't thank me," he whispered into my hair. "You married me. This was the deal."

That made me pull back, wiping my eyes angrily. "Right. The deal. So this is just payment."

"Isn't everything?" His eyes were dark, unreadable. "You got what you wanted. I got what I wanted."

"You got a fake wife."

"I got my enemy back in my house. After five years of this house being too quiet."

That sentence hung between us.

My revenge plan felt stupid suddenly. How do you get revenge on someone who just saved your father's life and remembers your spelling bee trophy from twelve years ago?

"I should go to sleep," I whispered.

"You should," he said, but he didn't let go. His hands were still on my waist.

We were in his office, alone, at midnight. I was in my old pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt. He was in sweatpants, his wet hair dripping onto his shoulders.

And we were married.

My eyes dropped to his lips without permission. Ethan's eyes dropped to mine.

For a second, I thought he was going to kiss me. For a second, I thought I wanted him to.

Then his phone rang. Loudly. "Mom" on the screen.

He let go of me like I burned him.

"Yes, Mom," he answered, his voice instantly cold again. He walked to the window, turning his back to me.

I took that as my cue to run.

Back in my huge, cold room, I locked the connecting door. But I couldn't lock out the image of the photo. Or the way he held me.

I looked at the ring on my finger. Simple. Not flashy. The one I once said was pretty.

My enemy remembered.

I opened my notes app and typed the only thing I could do to keep my sanity.

REVENGE PLAN - UPDATED:

1. Find out why Ethan has my photo since we were kids.

2. Don't fall for him. (Rule number one is stupid. New rule: Don't let him touch you again.)

3. Survive one year without killing him or kissing him.

I failed at number three already. I had wanted him to kiss me in the office.

I buried my face in the pillow and screamed.

From the other side of the locked door, I heard Ethan's voice, low:

"Goodnight, Enemy. Try not to dream about killing me."

Jerk. He heard me.

This was going to be a very, very long year.

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