WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?

GABE’S POV

I froze at the door, uncertain for the first time in my life. For ten years, I’d meticulously planned the perfect revenge against Ernest Abertton. I’d traced every detail of his life, day by day, until I pinpointed his weakness: Olívia, his middle daughter, the bastard child who came into his world at ten years old.

I’d never stoop to marrying an Abertton myself, so Jorel was my best bet. My brother was the kind of guy who cared about nothing but himself. He’d make Ernest’s precious daughter suffer—the one thing Ernest cherished most. I never imagined Jorel could live without booze, women, and drugs. And to top it off, I discovered he was hooked on gambling. A perfect storm of flaws, tailor-made for “daddy’s little girl.” Best of all, despite being a Clifford by name, Jorel was worthless. He only made headlines because he was my brother, tied to me.

Pairing a broke Abertton with a disgraced Clifford would barely raise an eyebrow in the press. That’s why I had my secretary, Ingrid Ferrari, leak to the tabloids that Olívia was a bastard, born to a prostitute. It would tarnish Ernest’s already stained name, proving his legacy was garbage. And me? I wasn’t even going to show up to that damn wedding. I was just there to make sure nothing went wrong.

Everything went wrong.

I kicked the church office door so hard it flew off its hinges. The hired guests all turned, wide-eyed, staring at me. The priest took his place, and I let out a sigh, thinking maybe Jorel had shown up after all, that it was all a misunderstanding.

Then the music started, and the bride’s mother walked in with the teenage wannabe in tow. Damn it! I never thought Ernest would hesitate to agree to this marriage, but he did. I figured he only went along with it because Olívia—stick-thin Olívia—was willing to throw herself on the altar for her family, probably because of some schoolgirl crush on Jorel, like half the girls her age in North Noriah.

I’d never understand why young women were so naive, falling for sleazy, womanizing drunks.

“Sir, should I announce the wedding’s off? The bride and her father… they’re at the church door,” Ingrid said.

If this wedding got canceled, there’d be no second chance. Ernest wouldn’t let his “sweetheart” sacrifice herself again if he had time to think it over.

“Ingrid, swap Jorel’s name for mine on the prenup. Now.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Clifford?” Her voice shook.

“Keep the press out of this damn church. The prenup needs to be updated immediately.”

“But, Mr. Clifford—”

“Do what I say, damn it! Now!”

Jorel, that idiot, had said it himself: “Why don’t you marry her?”

And damn if he wasn’t right. No one could destroy Stick-Figure better than me—a heartless man who cared for nothing and no one.

She’d self-destruct in less than a year. And with her, her pathetic father would die of heartbreak.

I strode to the altar, laughing, because this plan was going to be even better than I’d hoped.

“This is… insane!” My sister’s voice echoed from the front row. “Do you know what you’re doing, Gabe?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I said.

“Mr. Clifford…” The priest raised an eyebrow. “I thought the groom was… the other Clifford.”

“Now it’s me.” I didn’t bother looking at the old man. “Just say ‘Gabe’ where you’d say ‘Jorel.’ And make it quick.” I checked my watch. “My time’s worth more than gold, and we need to wrap this up before the national press storms your church.”

Ingrid was juggling two phones, one pressed to each ear. Then that cheesy wedding march started playing. I’d told my secretary to keep it bare-bones: small church, minimal decor, basic reception. No point wasting a single norian on those two. Except now, “those two” were me and her.

Yes, I was marrying Stick-Figure. My wife would be a bland, odorless, tasteless… What the hell?

Thank God there wasn’t a mirror to catch my face right then. It must’ve been the most horrified expression I’d ever worn. Olívia Stick-Figure was in a purple dress… with a green veil?

I rubbed my eyes, trying to sharpen the image. I didn’t pinch myself to check if I was dreaming—that would’ve been too ridiculous, even worse than her dress.

“Where’s the damn dress you sent her?” I mouthed furiously at Ingrid, whose lips trembled, her eyes so wide I thought they’d pop out of her head.

Even the stepmother hadn’t seen this coming—her face was drained of color, paler than Stick-Figure’s skin under that Halloween monstrosity of a dress.

But the teenage wannabe knew. Oh, she knew. Her grin stretched ear to ear, practically clapping for her sister’s stunt.