Part 1His Brother's Bride

Before the System erased me for failing my mission, I asked it, “Can I tell him who I really am?”

“You may.”

I stood in front of Caleb Davenport and slowly peeled off my shirt.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I said. “The truth is, I’m a girl.”

Caleb’s eyes widened, his jaw slack. The poor guy. After years of locking horns with his fiercest rival, he was only now discovering that his sworn enemy wasn’t a guy at all.

As his shock washed over me, I closed my eyes, ready for the sweet release of oblivion.

But I didn’t die. I woke up, back in this world.

The System’s voice was apologetic in my head. “After your death, your mission progress inexplicably shot to one hundred percent. As a compensation package, you have been granted a second chance at life.”

A pause.

“Your new identity is Ava Miller, the wife of a wealthy man who is never home and whose fortune is yours to spend.”

I nodded slowly, processing. “Okay. Sounds good. My dream life, actually. So, what’s the name of this husband who’s never home?”

“Caleb Davenport.”

* * *

“Who?!” I sat bolt upright.

“Ahem,” the System cleared its throat, the audio file crackling with digital guilt. “In any case, we hope the host enjoys her new life. Goodbye!”

It vanished faster than a guilty conscience.

I was left reeling in the silence.

“Ma’am, please, you have to calm down! Don’t do anything rash!”

A voice beside me pulled me back to reality. I blinked, taking in the scene for the first time.

Chaos. Utter chaos.

The apartment was enormous, the kind of sprawling penthouse that screamed eight figures. But there was barely a place to stand. Everything from porcelain plates to the curated collectibles in the display cabinets had been smashed to pieces.

“It’s one thing to break a few dishes when you’re upset, but this… ma’am, what if you’d cut your hand?” the assistant fretted, wringing his hands. His concern, I noted, was less for my well-being and more for the expensive shrapnel littering the floor.

A cleaning lady knelt, cautiously starting to gather the larger pieces. She paused, her eyes fixed on a pile of shattered clay fragments.

“Oh, no,” she whispered.

“What is it?” the assistant asked.

“I think… I think this was Mr. Finn’s.”

The assistant sucked in a sharp breath. The air in the room, already thick with tension, solidified into a dreadful, silent dread that gripped the half-dozen staff members present.

“Quickly, quickly, clean it up!” the assistant hissed, his voice trembling. “Forget everything else, get Finn’s… get that sculpture out of sight! Mr. Davenport must not see this!” He turned to me, his face pale with terror. “This is a disaster. Mr. Finn’s things are absolutely off-limits. No one is allowed to touch them! Ma’am, of all the things to smash, why this?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Finn?”

“Shh!” he panicked. “Don’t say his full name! The boss will lose his mind if he hears it!”

As if on cue, a tall, lean figure stepped through the front door.

“Whose name?”

Caleb Davenport’s voice, low and cold, sliced through the silence and landed like a shard of ice in my ear.