Chapter 1: Waking Up in the Enemy’s Bed

If you’d told seventeen-year-old me I’d wake up tangled in Ethan Callahan’s sheets, I’d have laughed in your face. Or maybe cried.

The morning sun cut through the blinds, hot and insistent, painting stripes across the sheets. I shifted my arm, careful not to wake him.

Texas light always felt relentless, even before breakfast. The air in Ethan’s apartment clung with the scent of his cologne and the earthy tang of old cedar boards. I lay on my side, half-buried in linen, the shadows of restless dreams still trailing over my skin.

Ethan’s arm tightened around my waist, anchoring me to the mattress.

A familiar roughness—a weight I’d learned to live with—pressed into me. His chest was a wall at my back, solid and unyielding. In another life, I would have flinched. My heart hammered against my ribs, memory and muscle tangled up in his warmth. I kept my breathing slow, careful—like if I moved too fast, I’d shatter.

Ethan Callahan lowered his head, lips grazing my neck. His voice, low and ragged from sleep, slid over my skin:

"Did I wear you out, or what?"

His words were a little rougher, a little more familiar—like he’d spent the night chain-smoking, not sleeping. He always lingered at my neck, as if the scent of me was the only thing keeping him grounded.

I froze, just for a second, then nodded, barely breathing.

If it had been before, maybe I would have pulled away. But after three weeks with him, I’d learned one thing:

Just go along with it.

I told myself it was easier this way. But sometimes, I still caught myself flinching when his shadow crossed the wall.

He caught my hand, weaving his fingers through mine, amusement flickering in his eyes.

He leaned in close, breath warm against my hair as he laughed quietly:

"Don’t tell me you actually kept the ring this time."

There was always a dare in his smile, a challenge in the tilt of his mouth. He knew I wouldn’t rise to it—not anymore.

...

He meant the diamond ring I wore on my finger.

There had been two before—one I hid in the freezer, one I tossed into the backyard pool.

I don’t want to remember what came after those. This third ring? It feels like the end of the story, the last door slammed shut.

I have to marry him—the person I once feared most.

Marry him!

The diamond on my finger sparkled, heavy as a shackle and just as cold. In another world, I’d post a photo, hashtag it #blessed, and smile for the likes. Here, it just felt like a prison sentence, gleaming for everyone but me.