Weddings are supposed to be beautiful. People in movies cry happy tears, cue the violins, and everyone posts perfect Instagram stories captioned with #CoupleGoals. Flowers bloom, birds sing, and everything smells like vanilla-scented lies.

Mine? It was going to be a disaster. Not because of the weather, or bad catering, or Aunt May’s obsession with karaoke. No, mine was special. It was ruined by something truly cinematic: betrayal.

Yeah, turns out my fiancé decided to rehearse his wedding night early—with my stepsister.

Classic. Truly poetic. Someone give him an award for creativity in ruining my life. Maybe even a Netflix adaptation.

You know, they say the day before your wedding is when you feel most nervous. You wonder if you’re ready, if he’s the one, if your in-laws will hate you. I felt none of that. I was too busy choking on the bitter taste of irony while clutching the bouquet of my shattered dignity.

The hotel hallway smelled like roses and disappointment as I stood outside the suite door, knuckles white on the handle. Behind it, I heard laughter. Giggling. The kind of high-pitched squeal you only make when you’re up to something immoral—or when you find out your favorite boy band is doing a reunion tour.

That squeal belonged to Vera Hayes. My stepsister. The princess of fake tears, real silicone, and the emotional depth of a teaspoon.

I should’ve walked away. Pretended I didn’t hear it. But no, humans are masochists like that. We dive headfirst into the burning building, just to confirm the fire is real.

So I pushed the door open slowly. You know those moments where you hope you’re wrong, even though the universe is practically slapping you with the truth? Yeah, that.

And there they were. The happy couple, in their natural habitat of betrayal.

Ethan—my fiancé—looking like a discount K-drama lead, shirtless and sweaty. Vera, in nothing but expensive lingerie, perched on his lap like a smug little cat that just found a new scratching post.

My brain short-circuited for a solid five seconds. Then Ethan spoke, because apparently, his survival instinct had taken the day off.

“Lina—” His eyes widened like a deer caught cheating on its taxes.

Vera smirked, her lips curling like the villainess in a bad soap opera. “Oops.”

Oops. Right. I almost laughed. Because when you’re caught betraying your sister the night before her wedding, the correct word is oops. Ten points for originality, Vera. Someone call the Oxford Dictionary.

I stepped inside, heels clicking against the marble floor like the drumroll to an execution. My reflection in the mirror behind them looked calm, collected, dangerously silent. Inside? I was a bonfire.

“So,” I said, my voice eerily steady, “this is the part where I scream, throw things, and cry on the floor, right? That’s what you expected?”

Ethan opened his mouth like he was about to give me some cliché line: It’s not what it looks like. Which, by the way, is the dumbest thing you can ever say when your tongue is literally halfway down someone else’s throat.

“Save it,” I cut him off. “Honestly, I should thank you. You saved me from a lifetime of mediocrity.”

Vera tilted her head, her smug smile glowing brighter than her fake diamonds. “You really think you can find someone better than Ethan?”

Oh, sweet summer child. Challenge accepted.

I smiled—not because I was happy, but because I had just decided to ruin their lives in the most spectacular way possible. The kind of revenge that deserves a standing ovation.

“Better than him?” I said, stepping back toward the door. “Watch me.”

The slam of the door behind me was the full stop to a chapter I didn’t know I was writing.

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I didn’t cry. Not a single tear. Not because I was strong, but because my tear ducts had probably gone on strike. Instead, I walked out of that hotel with the grace of a woman plotting murder in her head and ordered a black coffee because apparently caffeine is cheaper than therapy.

By the time the sun rose, the city was awake, buzzing like a nest of angry bees. People rushing to work, chasing dreams, breaking hearts. And me? I was standing in front of a building so tall it probably had its own oxygen supply—Cross Enterprises.

Why? Because if life’s going to throw me into the flames, I might as well become the fire.

And the man who owned this tower of capitalist glory? Damien Cross. CEO. Billionaire. Ruthless overlord in a three-piece suit. My stepsister’s greatest fear and the kind of man tabloids worship like a Greek god with a private jet.

I wasn’t here for an autograph. I was here for revenge. And maybe a little self-destruction on the side.

The lobby swallowed me whole—marble floors, glass walls, and an atmosphere thick with money and ambition. Receptionists stared, men in suits strutted like peacocks, and there I was, a walking storm in last night’s clothes.

The elevator ride felt like judgment day. My heart was a drum, my brain was screaming Are you insane? The answer? Yes. But I’ve always believed sanity is overrated.

When the doors opened, I stepped into an office that looked like it belonged in a magazine titled How to Intimidate People with Taste. And there he was—Damien Cross.

Tall. Sharp jawline. Eyes like polished obsidian that could cut through lies—and probably through your soul. He sat behind a desk worth more than my college degree, flipping through papers like he didn’t just become my ultimate weapon.

“Miss Hayes,” he said without looking up, his voice deep enough to make gravity jealous. “What brings you here?”

I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and dropped a nuclear bomb of words.

“Marry me.”

He finally looked up. And just like that, the game began.

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Word Count: ~1500 words

✅ Added:

Deeper sarcastic internal monologue (Hikigaya flavor throughout)

Vivid scene description (hotel, city, lobby)

Stronger emotional undercurrent (anger masked by humor)

If life was a joke, then this chapter was the punchline—and I was standing smack in the middle of it, ready to get hit.

Damien Cross’s office was everything I imagined: cold, sterile, and designed to remind you how insignificant you really were. Glass walls that shimmered with the arrogance of a man who clearly believed he was the center of the universe. A desk so massive it could have its own zip code.

And there he was, sitting behind it, as calm and unreadable as a statue carved from black ice.

“Miss Hayes,” he said, eyes lifting lazily to inspect me like I was some curious insect daring to invade his territory. “To what do I owe the—”

I cut him off, my voice sharper than I’d expected. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fact that I was about to say something no sane person would. “Marry me.”

The silence was immediate. Thick. So thick it probably could have been sliced and served with an appetizer.

Damien blinked once, slow and deliberate, like I’d just spoken in an alien language. Then, a small, amused smile curled at the corner of his mouth. Not the warm kind, more like the smirk a cat wears before it swats a terrified mouse off the edge of a table.

“Well,” he said, folding his hands and leaning back, “that’s not a conversation I hear every day. Care to explain?”

Explain? I wanted to scream, I caught my fiancé screwing my stepsister, and now I want to ruin their lives. But instead, I took a breath, summoned every ounce of sarcasm, and laid my cards on the table.

“I’m here because I have a problem. A rather large one, actually.” I stepped forward, letting my voice drip with the kind of irony only misery can perfect. “My fiancé cheated on me with my stepsister. The night before our wedding.”

Damien’s eyes narrowed—either because he was impressed or just bored. Probably bored.

“So,” I continued, “I figured the best way to get back at them is to marry you.”

He raised an eyebrow, the silent question hanging in the air: Why me?

“Why not?” I asked, smirking despite myself. “You’re the biggest nightmare Vera’s ever had. Plus, you get to watch Ethan squirm from the sidelines while I—” I paused for dramatic effect “—take the spotlight.”

Damien chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that somehow made the cold room feel colder. “You really think you can handle me? I’m not exactly the cuddly type.”

Oh, honey, if they only knew. I was a master of sarcasm and stubbornness—two qualities that made me oddly compatible with someone like him.

“But,” he said, standing up, towering over me like a skyscraper made of smug, “why should I say yes?”

I should’ve panicked. Maybe offered a bribe or a sob story. Instead, I smiled. Not the friendly smile people expect, but the kind that says I’m dangerous, and I know it.

“Because it’s mutually beneficial.”

Damien’s lips twitched, like he wanted to say Go on, but was too amused to bother.

“I get revenge. You get a wife to secure your inheritance.”

He laughed again. “Ambitious. I like that.”

We talked terms. Or rather, I talked, and he threw in sarcastic comments for flavor. The contract was harsh—no love, no children, strict rules about appearances. But it was exactly what I needed.

The more he tested me, the more I realized this was no game for amateurs. But I was already in too deep.

When I finally left his office, the city felt different. Bigger. Colder. But somehow, I felt like I’d just lit a match in the darkness.

And the flame was only beginning to burn.

The worst part about making an outrageous proposal? Waiting for the other person to respond.

There I was, standing in Damien Cross’s penthouse office, the city skyline glinting behind him like some smug audience waiting for the drama to unfold.

“Marry me,” I’d said, like a lunatic asking for a lifetime supply of headaches. And Damien? He looked at me with the kind of expression people reserve for poorly cooked steak—mild disgust mixed with faint amusement.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes sweeping over me in a way that wasn’t lustful—more analytical, like he was trying to figure out which mental institution had lost a patient.

Finally, he spoke. “Why should I?”

Ah, the dreaded question. And here I was, fresh out of reasonable answers. But who needs reason when you have desperation wrapped in sarcasm?

“Because,” I began, lifting my chin with more confidence than I actually had, “it’ll benefit both of us.”

He smirked. Of course he smirked. This man probably came out of the womb smirking. “Enlighten me.”

Alright, Lina. Time to sell this like it’s the last clearance item on Black Friday.

“You need a wife.”

His eyebrow arched. “Do I?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice firm, even though my insides were performing an interpretive dance of panic. “If the rumors about Cross Enterprises’ inheritance clause are true—and trust me, they are—you need to be married to keep control of your empire.”

His smile widened, slow and dangerous, like a cat toying with a mouse that just declared war. “And what makes you think I’d choose you?”

Ouch. Direct hit. Ten points to House Brutality.

I shrugged. “Because I’m the perfect candidate.”

“Oh?” He folded his hands, elbows resting on the armrest like a king holding court. “Explain.”

I took a step closer, forcing my heartbeat to shut up. “I don’t want your money, I don’t want your love, and I sure as hell don’t want to sleep in your bed—unless it’s for show.”

His eyes glimmered with dark amusement. “That last part is negotiable.”

I ignored the heat that shot up my spine and pulled out my phone, unlocking it with a dramatic flourish. If this were a movie, ominous music would start playing right about now.

“Besides,” I said casually, swiping through my gallery, “you’re going to say yes anyway.”

“And why is that?”

I turned the screen toward him. One tap, and the image filled his view: a glossy, high-resolution shot of Vera—my oh-so-beloved stepsister—at a charity gala, perched on the arm of Damien’s biggest rival, Marcus Vane.

Her hand on his chest. Her lips dangerously close to his ear. And Marcus? Smiling like the devil finally got a partner in crime.

“Where did you—” Damien’s voice cut off as his jaw tightened. His mask of boredom cracked for the first time, just slightly.

“Public event,” I said sweetly. “The rest is basic detective work and a friend who owes me a favor at the press.”

He stared at the photo like it was a live grenade. And maybe it was. Because if this little piece of scandal hit the headlines, Marcus Vane would have enough leverage to wreck Cross Enterprises.

“Vera’s been busy,” I added, because apparently my self-preservation instincts had taken the day off. “She’s been whispering in Marcus’s ear about your upcoming merger. I’m sure you know what that means.”

His gaze snapped to me, sharp enough to peel skin. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Hayes.”

“And you’re running out of time,” I countered. “So here’s the deal: Marry me. Announce it today. Vera will lose her mind, Marcus will lose his pawn, and you keep your throne.”

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken threats and the faint sound of my sanity packing its bags and leaving town.

Finally, Damien stood. Slowly. Deliberately. If intimidation were an Olympic sport, this man would’ve taken gold.

He walked around the desk and stopped just inches from me. Up close, he smelled expensive—something sharp and clean, like power bottled and sold at luxury prices.

His voice dropped, low and lethal. “You think you can blackmail me into marriage?”

I met his gaze head-on, ignoring the way my knees considered mutiny. “Not blackmail. Negotiation.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Not amusement. Something darker. He stepped even closer, until his breath ghosted against my ear.

“Careful, Lina,” he murmured, my name rolling off his tongue like a sin. “Deals with me don’t end in fairy tales. They end in blood.”

Well. That was reassuring.

Before I could respond with something equally dramatic, he pulled back and smirked—the kind of smirk that could start wars and bankrupt empires.

“Fine,” he said finally. “You want a deal? You’ve got one. But understand this…” He leaned down just enough for his shadow to swallow mine. “From this moment on, you belong to me.”

Somewhere in the distance, a metaphorical alarm bell went off screaming bad idea, bad idea, abort mission! But it was too late.

Because when the devil offers you a deal, you don’t walk away. You sign.

And maybe—just maybe—you set the world on fire while you’re at it.

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