Contract Marriage With My Enemy

Three hours after saying "I do" in the most reluctant ceremony in Manhattan history, I stood in the doorway of my Brooklyn apartment, staring at a pile of expensive luggage that definitely hadn't been there when I left this morning.

"What the hell?" I dropped my keys, the metallic clatter echoing through my suddenly foreign-feeling space.

Suitcases. Designer garment bags. A leather briefcase that probably cost more than my monthly rent. All arranged neatly in my living room like some twisted housewarming gift.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my landlord, Mr. Petrov, my hands shaking with rage.

"Ah, Mrs. Whitman!" His heavily accented voice was way too cheerful. "Congratulations on wedding! Your husband's parents, they pay six months advance to add his name to lease. Very generous people!"

"They did what?" My voice cracked on the last word.

"Is all legal, don't worry. Papers signed this morning. Your husband, he can move in anytime!"

The line went dead. I stared at my phone, then at the luggage, then back at my phone. The audacity was breathtaking. They'd literally moved him into my sanctuary without asking. My one safe space in this entire mess, and they'd violated it like it was nothing.

The front door opened behind me, and I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. The expensive cologne gave him away.

"Cozy place," Jason said, his voice dripping with fake appreciation. "Very... Brooklyn."

I spun around to face him, my wedding dress—a simple white sheath I'd grabbed from Nordstrom this morning—rustling with the movement. "Get out."

"Can't do that, wife." He emphasized the last word like it was a joke. "Apparently, I live here now."

"Like hell you do."

He pulled a set of keys from his pocket, dangling them in front of my face. "Fresh from Mr. Petrov. Nice guy. Very accommodating when my parents offered to cover the next six months' rent."

I lunged for the keys, but he was faster, pulling them back with that same smirk that had infuriated me since we were seven.

"This is my apartment, Jason. Mine. You can't just—"

"Actually, I can." He walked past me into the kitchen, opening my refrigerator like he owned the place. "Nice selection. Very... organic."

I followed him, my heels clicking angrily against the hardwood. "I don't care what your parents paid. I don't care what papers they signed. You are not staying here."

"Where exactly am I supposed to go?" He turned to face me, leaning against my counter with infuriating casualness. "In case you forgot, we're married now. Married people typically live together."

"This isn't a real marriage!"

"Tell that to the state of New York." He held up his left hand, where a simple gold band now sat on his ring finger. "Pretty sure this makes it official."

I looked down at my own hand, at the matching ring I'd been forced to accept three hours ago. The weight of it felt foreign, like wearing someone else's jewelry.

"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. "You can stay. But you're sleeping in the guest room. And you don't touch my stuff. And you don't eat my food."

His eyes lit up with challenge. "What if I get hungry?"

"Order takeout."

"What if I want something healthy?" He opened the fridge again, his gaze landing on the fruit drawer. "Like that perfect Honeycrisp apple."

I followed his stare to my last apple—the one I'd been saving for tomorrow's breakfast. The one I'd specifically bought because Honeycrisps were my absolute favorite, and this particular one was flawless. Golden-red skin without a single blemish.

"Don't even think about it," I warned.

He reached for the fruit drawer.

"Jason, I'm serious. That's mine."

His fingers closed around the apple.

"I said don't!"

But he was already pulling it out, examining it with exaggerated appreciation. "Wow, this is a really nice one. Perfect color, good weight."

"Put it back."

"I don't think I will." He took a step toward me, the apple held between us like a weapon. "See, wife, we're sharing everything now. What's yours is mine, and what's mine is—"

I snatched the apple from his hand so fast he didn't have time to react. Without breaking eye contact, I bit into it with the loudest, most obnoxious crunch I could manage.

The sweet juice ran down my chin as I chewed deliberately, maintaining aggressive eye contact the entire time. "Mmm," I said, taking another loud bite. "So good. Too bad there's only one."

His jaw tightened. "Really mature, Stephanie."

"Says the man who just tried to steal my apple on our wedding night."

"I wasn't stealing it. I was testing the boundaries of our new living arrangement."

I took another bite, the crunch echoing through the kitchen. "Boundary tested. You failed."

He stared at me for a long moment, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. Whatever he was planning, it wasn't going to be good.

"Fine," he said finally. "Enjoy your apple. I'm going to go get settled in the guest room."

He grabbed his luggage and disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my victory apple. But instead of feeling triumphant, I felt oddly hollow. This was my life now—petty warfare over fruit with a man I couldn't stand.

I finished the apple and threw the core away, then changed out of my wedding dress into my most comfortable pajamas. If I was going to be trapped in this nightmare, at least I could be comfortable.

By midnight, I was finally ready for bed. I'd claimed my usual spot under my favorite down comforter, trying to pretend this was just another normal night in my normal life.

That's when I heard his footsteps in the hallway.

I held my breath, hoping he was just going to the bathroom. But the footsteps stopped right outside my door.

The doorknob turned.

"What are you—" I started to say, but then my comforter was being yanked off the bed with such force that I rolled halfway across the mattress.

"JASON!" I shrieked, scrambling to grab the blanket, but he was already backing toward the door with it bunched in his arms.

"What's wrong, wife?" His voice was sickeningly sweet. "Too cold without your precious comforter?"

The October night air hit my skin like ice water. I'd been so focused on the apple drama that I'd forgotten to check the thermostat, and my apartment was freezing.

"Give it back!"

"I don't think I will." He clutched the comforter tighter. "See, I'm still a little hungry. And since someone ate the last apple..."

"That has nothing to do with my blanket!"

"Doesn't it?" He backed into the hallway. "Good night, Stephanie. Sweet dreams."

The guest room door slammed shut.

I sat on my bed in the dark, shivering in my thin pajamas, staring at the closed door and plotting seventeen different ways to murder my new husband.

"I HATE YOU!" I screamed at the wall.

"HATE YOU TOO!" came his muffled reply.

And that's when I heard it—a mechanical grinding sound from somewhere in the walls, followed by the distinct absence of the gentle hum that usually indicated my heating system was running.

Of course. Of course the heat would break on the coldest night in weeks, right after my husband stole my only warm blanket.

I wrapped my arms around myself and glared at the guest room door.

This was going to be a very long marriage.