Revenge Is Sweet: Marrying His Worst Enemy

Kenia Hayes POV

Freedom tasted sweet for exactly forty-eight hours before it turned to ash.

I was staying in a run-down motel in Queens, trying to figure out how to disappear with only twelve dollars in my pocket.

The burner phone I’d bought with cash buzzed against the cheap laminate nightstand.

It wasn't a number.

It was just the word RUN.

Before I could even process it, the door splintered off its hinges.

Two men in ski masks filled the frame, blocking out the hallway light.

They didn't speak.

They lunged.

I fought, my nails raking uselessly against thick leather jackets, my boots connecting with shins.

One of them backhanded me.

My head snapped back, and the world went blurry at the edges.

They dragged me into a van before I could scream.

A black bag went over my head, plunging me into darkness.

The air inside was thick with the nauseating smell of gasoline and old sweat.

We drove for what felt like an hour.

When the van stopped, they hauled me out and marched me across crunching gravel.

I could hear the roar of the ocean.

The bag was ripped off.

We were at the Cliffside Villa.

Holden’s private estate.

But it wasn't a romantic getaway.

It was a stage.

I was shoved into a chair in the center of the patio.

Zip ties bit into the tender skin of my wrists.

Across from me, tied to another chair, was Estella.

She looked perfect, even in distress.

Her hair was tousled just right.

Her makeup was smudge-free.

"Help!" she screamed, her eyes darting to a camera set up on a tripod. "Holden, please!"

Holden stepped out from the shadows like a dark prince entering his court.

He held a gun.

He looked like a god of vengeance, jaw set, eyes dark.

"Let them go," he growled at the masked men.

"You can only save one, Boss," one of the men said, his voice distorted by a modulator.

"The other goes over the edge."

He pointed to the cliff behind us.

It was a sheer drop straight into the jagged rocks and churning water.

Holden looked at me.

Then he looked at Estella.

For a split second, the mask slipped.

I saw the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

This wasn't a kidnapping.

This was Prank #98.

I had seen the list on his iPad once.

Social experiments.

Tests of loyalty.

Sick games for rich psychopaths.

"I choose..." Holden paused for dramatic effect, looking straight into the camera lens. "Estella."

He rushed to her, cutting her bonds with a knife he pulled from his boot.

He pulled her into a passionate, cinematic kiss.

The masked men grabbed my chair.

"No!" I screamed, the terror real even if the scenario wasn't. "Holden!"

He didn't even look back.

He was too busy playing the hero for his future wife.

The men pushed.

I tipped backward.

Gravity snatched me.

I fell.

The wind rushed past my ears like a scream.

I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the impact of rocks.

Waiting for death.

Instead, I hit something soft.

Air hissed out around me violently.

I bounced.

I opened my eyes.

I was lying on a giant yellow stunt airbag on the lower deck of the villa.

Above me, on the balcony, Holden and Estella were looking down, laughing.

Estella was holding a glass of champagne.

"You should have seen your face!" she shrieked.

Holden leaned over the railing.

"It's just a game, Kenia," he called down, his voice carrying effortlessly over the wind. "Don't be so dramatic. The airbag cost five grand."

I lay there, staring up at the gray sky.

My body ached.

My heart was a crater.

He hadn't just broken my heart.

He had turned my terror into content for his amusement.

I wasn't a person to him.

I was a prop.

And props don't get to walk away.