The Bride Swap

A girl with long braids stood nearby, delicate and willowy, her fingers pinching her nose as she turned to the man beside her, voice full of complaint.

I followed her gaze. The man was tall, ramrod straight, face expressionless like a statue carved from iron.

Rolling my eyes, I said, "You're Blake Malcolm, right? I'm your fiancée, Joyce Cameron. Take a look at the engagement letter. If everything checks out, find me somewhere to rest."

I tossed my suitcase in his direction, ignoring the girl's wounded expression, then stood up and headed straight for the door.

"Blake, does she not like me...?" Leila Burgman's voice trailed behind me, pitiful and meek.

Already exhausted from the long trip and nauseous from the boat ride, I felt a flare of irritation rise in my chest.

"What are you saying? Do I even know you?" I snapped.

Turning my head slightly, I barked, "Blake, are you a man or not? Can you move your damn legs a little faster?"

I didn't bother checking their reactions. With a scowl on my face, I kept walking.

A few steps later, I noticed someone following me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it was Blake, carrying my luggage with that same unreadable look on his face.

No explanation. No reaction.

No wonder my cousin spent her whole past life miserable. Leila was a pretentious bitch; Blake was one tight-lipped stoic man—Sarah, proud and sensitive, never stood a chance.

But I'm not made of the same soft material. If I'm happy, I can live with anything. If I'm not, I'll make sure everyone shares in my misery.

Since the childhood engagement was real, and Blake's family had already called ahead, Blake had filed the marriage report before I even arrived.

So, a couple of days later, our wedding was thrown together with the help of the military wives, bustling around with loud enthusiasm.

Blake's parents had passed away long ago, and my own family was too far off to attend. The guests were all comrades and wives from the base. Still, the atmosphere was lively. The whole family compound buzzed with celebration.

"I'm so jealous of Joyce," Leila said. "Because of an old family engagement, she gets to marry Blake. She's so lucky... unlike me..."

Her voice trailed off, breaking into quiet sobs.

The laughter and chatter of the yard faded into awkward silence. The guests exchanged looks as the sound of soft weeping filled the space.

I glanced over. Leila had her face buried in her hands, shoulders trembling.

I smiled, took two steps forward, stood on tiptoe, and wrapped my arms around Blake's head.

I kissed him square on the lips.

Then I raised my eyebrows at her smugly. "That's right. I'm the lucky one. Blake has a career, looks, and a body that—well, you know. A man like him needs a lucky woman like me. Otherwise, someone with bad luck might not be able to handle all this good fortune."

I grinned and pinched Blake's waist, hard.

Then I leaned in, eyes gleaming with mock-sweetness. "Right, Blake?"

His face stayed expressionless, but his ears turned a shade redder.

Before he could say a word, Leila looked up at him with tear-filled eyes, her voice soft and fragile.

"Blake, Joyce, please don't misunderstand. I really do wish you both happiness."

"If Joyce doesn't like me, I won't attend the wedding today. But..." Her voice trembled, and tears slid down her cheeks. "Blake, don't forget to pick me up tomorrow. We've always spent that day together, remember?"

Blake nodded. "I'll come. I'll bring the things. Don't worry."

The hand I'd wrapped around his waist shifted instinctively.

And then—bam—I flipped him clean over my shoulder.