The Mortician's Contract Marriage

The heavy oak door of Bar Sovereign swung open, and Geneva stepped inside. The immediate assault on her senses—the thumping bass of the music, the dim, moody lighting, the cloying scent of spilled liquor and cheap perfume—made her stomach clench.

But she didn't flinch. Heads turned. Conversations faltered. Her aura of cold fury was a tangible thing, cutting through the bar's manufactured atmosphere like a shard of ice.

Evan's tip had been right. He was here.

Her eyes scanned the room, dismissing the hopeful glances and curious stares. They landed, with pinpoint accuracy, on a plush corner booth. There he was. Preston.

He was already drunk—his words slurred, his movements loose and careless. Empty glasses littered the table in front of him. He was holding court, laughing loudly with Kyle and a few other sycophants. A blonde—one of Preston's usual distractions, a social climber Geneva had seen clinging to him at previous events—was draped over him, her hand splayed possessively on his chest.

Geneva walked to the bar, her heels clicking a steady, dangerous rhythm on the polished concrete floor. She picked up a glass of amber liquid—whiskey, neat—left unattended on the counter. She didn't ask. She just took it.

Then, she started walking toward the booth.

Preston saw her first. The boisterous laugh died in his throat, his smile freezing and cracking like thin ice. He scrambled to his feet, knocking his knee against the table. "Geneva? What... what are you doing here?"

The blonde looked Geneva up and down with a dismissive sneer, deliberately tightening her grip on Preston's shirt. A clear challenge.

Geneva ignored Preston completely. Her focus was entirely on the other woman. She stopped directly in front of her, a faint, cruel smile playing on her lips.

She raised the glass.

Slowly, deliberately, she poured the entire contents of the whiskey over the blonde's perfectly styled hair. The cold liquid streamed down her face, soaking into her low-cut dress.

The woman let out a piercing shriek. For a moment, the music seemed to fade, and every eye in their section of the bar was locked on the scene.

Before anyone could react, Geneva's hand moved in a blur. The sound of her palm connecting with the woman's cheek was a sharp, satisfying crack that echoed in the sudden lull.

"Stay away from my man, bitch," Geneva's voice was low, but it sliced through the air, each word a frozen dagger. She didn't bother looking at Preston, but her next words were for him. "Though I suppose a man who keeps such cheap company isn't worth fighting over."

The blonde stared back, her hand flying to her stinging cheek, a mixture of shock and rage in her eyes. But she was silenced by the sheer, unadulterated menace radiating from Geneva.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Preston finally found his voice, his face a mask of fury and humiliation. He grabbed Geneva's wrist. "Are you insane?"

Geneva held his gaze for a long moment, letting the silence stretch. Then she ripped her arm from his grasp, her eyes finally locking onto his. They were glacial. "Insane? Oh, Preston." She pulled out her phone. "Let me remind you what you said."

With a tap of her thumb, she hit play.

The recording of his voice, tinny but brutally clear, filled the space around their booth.

"...that freak... I don't want her showing up late and embarrassing me."

Preston's face went from red to a pasty white. The friends around him shifted uncomfortably, their expressions a mix of pity and morbid fascination.

"...are you really going to marry that mortician? I heard they all smell like formaldehyde."

Kyle Foster stared down at the table, his face burning with shame, refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

"...If it wasn't for that trust fund she unlocks, I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole."

The final, damning words hung in the air. Geneva stopped the recording. She looked at Preston, whose mouth was opening and closing like a fish, no sound coming out.

"The engagement is off," she announced, her voice ringing with finality. "We're done."

She turned to leave. But she wasn't finished. Not until the Hayes family saw what their son had become.

"You think you can just walk away?" Preston's voice cracked with drunken fury. He swayed, barely able to stand, but his pride wouldn't let him stay down. He lunged, trying to grab her from behind, to restrain her, to silence her.

It was a stupid mistake.

She seemed to anticipate it without looking. She pivoted on her heel, a fluid, practiced motion. Her elbow shot backward, connecting solidly with his solar plexus—she knew exactly where to strike. The body was, after all, her medium.

The air rushed out of him in a pained grunt, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach.He collapsed back onto the floor, mumbling incoherently.

She sighed, a sound of pure disgust. "Get up."

She should leave him here. Let him wake up on the filthy bar floor with nothing but his shame. But if she walked away now, he would spin the story. He would tell everyone she attacked him unprovoked. The Hayes family would bury her in court before sunrise.

No. She needed to control the narrative.

She grabbed the collar of his expensive jacket and hauled him to his feet. He was a dead weight, half-conscious, smelling of whiskey and self-pity. "You're going home," she said flatly, dragging him toward the exit. "To your parents."

The onlookers parted for them like she was a force of nature.

Outside, in the cool night air, she shoved him toward his ostentatious sports car. He collapsed into the passenger seat, a pathetic, drunken mess. He made one last, feeble attempt to grab her, to pull her toward him.

She countered with a swift, precise wrist-lock that made him cry out in pain.

She got into the driver's seat, the engine roaring to life at her touch. She glanced at the whimpering man beside her, a piece of trash she was now responsible for taking out.

She set the GPS. Destination: Hayes Manor.

It was time to return the defective goods.