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JEROME POV

Damn it! How could someone be this infuriatingly stupid?

She held that porcelain mug with pure, unbothered confidence, standing in the middle of my office in that ridiculous, oversized yellow shirt, wearing a smug little smirk that practically begged to be slapped off her face.

And to top off her little performance? No sugar. Zero. Bitter, scalding jet-black liquid that nearly stripped the lining of my throat.

Okay, fine. Maybe I’m exaggerating the coffee. But I am annoyed. I am furious. I am utterly, hopelessly brokenhearted.

Before she barged in with her petty little revenge act, I had been staring at my phone. I saw Anna and Collin’s I*******m posts. Dozens of photos, pristine blue water, white sand, and Anna laughing in a bathing suit, radiating pure happiness.

Then, as if the universe wanted to twist the knife, my phone rang. It was Anna, giggling through the speaker, complaining that Collin had accidentally dropped her sunglasses in the Caribbean Sea.

Every word was like acid pouring over an open wound.

God, I was furious, not at Collin, and certainly not at the love of my life, but at myself. Anna was my childhood sweet heart. We grew up together.

We were built for each other. Everything was perfect until Collin moved back in college, drawled a few words in his stupid British accent, and Anna fell head over heels. I never confessed. I never told her I loved her, and Collin certainly never knew.

He’s my best friend, for God's sake. So I kept my mouth shut, watched them exchange vows a few months ago, and buried my heart six feet under.

Marrying this yellow-shirted duckling was supposed to be a simple, calculated move. It was supposed to force my grandfather to take his vacation instead of micromanaging my life, and more importantly, it was meant to be a smoke screen.

A fake marriage so Anna and Collin would stop pitying me, stop probing into my private life, and finally settle down without feeling guilty.

I was supposed to be the master strategist, playing guardian angel from afar while keeping my heart protected.

So why is a twenty-five-year-old former schoolteacher in a borrowed yellow shirt currently making my blood boil more than my ruined love life?

“Damn it!” I grumbled and looked at the bitter coffee.

I saw Alexa’s smirk right before she closed the door—that sharp, knowing twist of her lips that let me know she recognized Anna’s voice immediately. The woman is far too observant for her own good; I’ll give her that much.

Just days before our civil ceremony, she had overheard me talking on the phone with Anna and Collin.

I don't even know what specific slip-up gave me away, but she instantly pieced together that I was hopelessly in love with my best friend’s wife.

I tried to deny it, of course, spinning some executive damage control, but Alexa was too quick. By the time I tried to backtrack, the truth was already out in the open.

Now she knows the full story. She knows I didn't just sign those two-year contract papers to save my CEO title from my grandfather’s ultimatum or to quiet down corporate rumors.

She knows this fake marriage was my ultimate cover story—a way to give Anna and Collin total peace of mind so they could build their life without feeling guilty, while allowing me to quietly watch over Anna from a safe distance.

And the absolute worst part? She’s right. I am crazy in love with Anna. I’ve forced myself to accept that I'm happy just seeing her smile, and I know she will never, ever look at me the way she looks at Collin.

But looking at Alexa’s smug face today just reminded me of the bitter truth: I am utterly furious at myself.

I’m consumed by a crushing, useless regret for being a coward. I had years. I had all of high school, all of our childhood, to tell Anna how I felt before Collin ever stepped back into the picture with his accent and ruined everything.

I stayed silent, and now I’m paying for it. I’m stuck in a grand, empty office, nursing a bitter cup of black coffee, completely exposed in front of a fake wife who sees right through my fortress.

******

ALEXA POV

By the time we got back to the penthouse that evening, the dark cloud hanging over Jerome’s head was heavy enough to trigger localized rainfall.

He spent the entire dinner picking the most childish, absurd fights imaginable. First, my fork clicked against the plate too loudly. Then, I was apparently breathing with unnecessary enthusiasm.

When I completely ignored his petty jabs and calmly chewed my salad, his knuckles turned white around his wine glass.

What was really driving him insane wasn't my table manners—it was the fact that I knew. I knew he’d been spiraling all afternoon over Anna’s tropical honeymoon pictures, and my total lack of pity was eating him alive.

"Do you mind not scrolling on your phone at the table?" he snapped, his baritone sharp enough to cut glass. "It's impolite."

I didn't even look up from my screen. "I'm checking my K-drama updates, Washington. You should try getting a hobby, too. Obsessive pining is terrible for your blood pressure."

"I am not pining—"

Before he could launch into another defensive tirade, the penthouse doors swung open. In marched Grandfather Arthur, leaning heavily on his gold-topped cane and looking like a commander inspecting a failing military unit.

"Why are you two sitting ten feet apart like strangers waiting for a bus?!" Arthur shouted, slamming his cane on the marble tile. "You've been married three days! Where is the romance? Where is the honeymoon?!"

Jerome nearly choked on his cabernet. "Grandfather, I have a multinational corporation to manage—"

"I don't give a damn about the corporation!" Arthur bellowed. "I expect my grandson and his bride to take a week off immediately. If I don't see a flight confirmation by tomorrow morning, Jerome, I am freezing your personal assets."

Cornered and thoroughly outmaneuvered, Jerome gritted his teeth and agreed to a one-week getaway.

Honestly? I didn't care. A week off sounded fantastic. As long as our destination had high-speed Wi-Fi, a plush bed, and enough room service for me to binge my shows in peace, the dragon could brood in his own corner all week for all I cared.

I was dead wrong.

Twenty-four hours later, I stepped out of a private vehicle straight into gale-force arctic winds, staring up at an isolated stone lodge perched on a brutal, snow-covered mountain somewhere in rural Ireland.

The freezing rain immediately plastered my hair to my face, and the driver casually mentioned that the storm had just knocked out the area's cellular towers.

No beach. No Wi-Fi. Just endless snow, one roaring fireplace, and seven days locked inside a frozen cabin with my insufferable fake husband.

Damn it.

"What are you sighing for? You agreed to this," Jerome's insufferable baritone cut through the howling gale behind me. "You didn't even bother saying no to Grandpa."

I whirled around, buried under enough layers of winter gear to survive the tundra. I was wearing a bright red down parka, red ski pants, and a thick woolen beanie. Okay, fine—I looked like a giant, oversized tomato, but who cares? It was freezing!

"Because your grandfather threatens to cut you out of your trust fund every five minutes, and you turn into a spineless wimp!" I yelled back, stepping inside the stone lodge and slamming the heavy oak door shut against the blizzard.

I immediately pulled out my phone, searching desperately for a signal. Nothing. Zero bars.

"What kind of cottage is this with no Wi-Fi?!" I shrieked, staring at the screen in pure horror. "Are we trying to go insane here doing nothing? JESUS! Seven days of looking at your face, Jerome, and I might actually not survive!"