WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? (II)

As Olívia and her sorry excuse for a father got closer, their expressions shifted. They realized I was standing there, not Jorel.

I thought Olívia might bolt, refuse, back out because it was me. But she didn’t. She kept smiling, like this was the happiest day of her life.

Her brown eyes sparkled under the makeup. Her lashes were thicker, curvier than the last time I saw her. Her lips, glossy and full, looked even bigger. She could’ve easily looked hideous. But she didn’t… even in that purple dress and absurd green veil.

When she and her father reached me, I said, “Surprise! Change of plans!”

“No kidding,” she shot back, making a face. “My groom got a lot shorter… and less handsome.”

I laughed. I’d break her. I’d make her beg at my feet, cry rivers of blood. And in return, she’d hand me her father’s life.

“Good thing we’re a perfect match, since you’re the ugliest bride I’ve ever seen!”

“Where’s the groom?” Ernest demanded. “I’d never hand my daughter over to you.”

“If you don’t, you’ll be out on the street.”

“I’d rather live under a bridge than see my sweetheart marry you, Gabe Clifford.” He pulled her hand, stepping in front of her.

“Your call, Ernest. Oh, and let’s drop the formalities. Can I call you ‘Dad’ now?”

“Over my dead body.”

“Here’s hoping that’s soon. I’m dying to pray at your grave with my hideous wife.”

“You’ll watch your mouth, Clifford, even if it’s the last thing I see,” he spat. “My sweetheart doesn’t have hate in her—she’s all love.”

I glanced at the corpse bride, who seemed unfazed by the chaos. Switching grooms was like choosing between a Rolls-Royce Boat Tail and a Bugatti La Voiture Noire—both were spectacular, so what did it matter?

OLÍVIA’S POV

“Dad, let’s get this over with!” I stepped out from behind him. I didn’t need protecting. If anyone needed it, it was Gabe Clifford.

I’d planned to change Jorel because I liked him, had a years-long crush. But Gabe Clifford? I wasn’t sure if I felt anything for him beyond pity—literal pity. Behind that ruthless man was a heart. I just had to find it. Once I healed his past wounds, he could move on. And forgive my father for whatever had happened.

As for me? I’d be free, finally. Maybe I’d even marry Jorel Clifford someday.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do this!” Dad tried to talk me out of marrying the CEO of the world’s biggest pharmaceutical company.

It was like holding the knife and the cheese. I’d be the wife of a man with the power to help people with vaccines and medicine. A perfect match: the doctor and the drug empire tycoon.

“You’re… smiling?” Gabe raised an eyebrow, his piercing blue eyes looking almost fake, full of disbelief.

I kissed my dad, knowing it should’ve been the other way around, and walked toward Gabe.

“Go on, Dad. It’ll be fine!” I assured him.

“Could you at least… tell me what I did to you?” Dad asked Mr. Clifford, who, in a few minutes, would go from “Mr.” to “my husband.” Did he like nicknames? I thought “husband” was cute. Maybe I’d call him that. It had a possessive ring to it: my husband.

Gabe laughed, dripping with his signature mockery.

“You think I’d tell you? When your corpse bride here lives up to her name, you’ll know.”

Dad lunged at him, ready to throw a punch. I stepped between them, calm.

“Dad, I’m fine. Take your seat and watch my wedding.” I smiled.

He sighed, shaking his head in disbelief, and went to sit next to Rose.

I looked at the priest, who seemed more frazzled than Dad. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. I turned to my future husband.

“With all your money, you couldn’t spring for a place with AC? Never pegged you for a cheapskate!”

“Get used to the heat. I hear hell’s pretty toasty.”

“Hot and spicy!” I shot him a sidelong glance. “I’ve been there… and I got out. Turns out, it’s not eternal. And word is, once you’ve been, nothing shakes you.”

“For God’s sake, Mr. Clifford, Miss Abertton,” the priest pleaded.

“Wrap this up already!” Gabe barked, checking his watch, clearly annoyed by the time.

“My future husband’s in a rush! Can’t wait to make me his wife!” I teased, glancing around to make sure no one could overhear or read my lips, then whispered, covering my mouth, “Must be eager for the honeymoon.”

“Did you… hit your head or something?” he snapped. “There’s no damn honeymoon. I won’t touch you. You make me sick.”

I sized him up, head to toe, and had to be honest.

“Jorel’s way hotter than you. But… you’re not bad-looking, future husband. Can’t wait to see what’s under all those designer clothes.”

“Mr. Clifford, Miss Abertton,” the priest’s voice boomed through the church. “I won’t force you to marry. It’s clear there’s a misunderstanding. Do you both want this marriage?”

“Yes,” Gabe said. “Just do what you’re supposed to. Where do I sign?”

“You’ve got to say the words, Gabe,” I pointed out.

“What words?”

“The ones about loving and honoring me forever.”

“I’m not gonna love or honor you.”

“So you don’t want to marry, Mr. Clifford?” the priest asked.

“I… have to.”

“The priest isn’t your therapist, Mr. Clifford,” I said.

“You’re trying to make me back out, aren’t you? Well, it’s not happening, Stick-Figure.”

“Stick-Figure?” I grinned. That was kind of cute. No one had ever called me that.

“It’s not a term of endearment!” he snapped.

“Sure it isn’t.” I couldn’t hold back a laugh.

“Would you two rather talk and get to know each other before marrying?” the priest asked, his tone a mix of sarcasm and anxiety.

“Mr. Clifford wants you to skip to the vows, right?” I said, impatient with how he kept checking his watch.

“Yes, yes…” Gabe barely registered my words, his mind clearly stuck on his watch.

“Father, if you could cut the ceremony to about a quarter of what you’re used to, Gabe and I would appreciate it.”

“Gabe?” He shot me a look. “You’re calling me Gabe?”

“You don’t think I’m gonna call you Mr. Clifford forever, do you? I’m still not sure if Elizabeth called Mr. Darcy ‘Mr. Darcy’ even when they were grandparents.”

“What?”

“Pride and Prejudice.”

“What?”

“The book. I read it and saw the movie.”

He glanced back at my dad. Oh, Mr. Clifford, don’t back out now! Your name will open doors for me, especially in medicine. I could do volunteer work, help with drugs and vaccines. I’m not Mother Teresa, but marrying a near-god on Earth means I can do things I never could without you… or rather, Gabe. I don’t want to be like Elizabeth, calling you “Mr.” forever.

I pictured us in bed: “Oh, Mr. Clifford, can you go faster?” Actually, Mr. Clifford needed to show me what “faster” meant in practice.

My cheeks flushed at the thought of that beast of a man over me. Yes, he was big. And… built. A bit shorter than Jorel, but just as gorgeous in his own way.

“On second thought… maybe I should keep calling you Mr. Clifford, since you’re way older than me,” I teased.

Flashes lit up the wall behind the priest. I turned to the main entrance I’d come through. The press! They took their sweet time, considering this was the wedding of the country’s richest man. When had Gabe decided to take his brother’s place? When had he chosen me as his wife instead of Jorel’s? What had he seen in me to change his mind?

“You’ve got ten minutes to finish this wedding!” Gabe roared at the priest.

God, the authority in his voice! How did he get even hotter when he was pissed?

From the moment I first saw him, I knew he was the iceberg to my Titanic. No doubt Gabe would break me. But every second would be worth it.

My diabetes cut my life expectancy by twenty years compared to most people. I wasn’t someone who could put things off. My life was planned down to the millimeter, with goals and milestones. In the end, Mr. Clifford—or rather, my Gabe—would check every box, even the ones I thought would stay blank after my death due to lack of money.

“Gabe, don’t think I’m wearing this color because I feel like I’m headed to hell with this marriage,” I said firmly. “Just so you know, I love colors. And your secretary sent me a dress that probably belonged to your great-grandmother. You’re wearing a Brunello Cucinelli suit. The bride’s supposed to stand out on her wedding day.”

“What did you do to the dress Ingrid sent you?”

“I dyed it,” I explained. “Didn’t throw it out, of course. I’m sure it’s a family heirloom, important to you.” Okay, now I was stretching the truth, because he looked completely thrown off.

Reporters popped up out of nowhere through the church’s side door. Gabe glanced at the woman standing a few steps away.

“Ingrid, call my driver now. Get a security team to block the press. And find something to throw over my bride—she can’t be seen by the world in that dress.”

“Say that again,” I said.

“What?”

“Say it again, Gabe!”

He frowned, confused.

“Just say ‘my bride’ again.” I teased, though deep down I was melting. It sounded so cute with that smug edge of his.