ELLA

I stare in horror, sure I must have misheard.

My gaze flicks between Darren and the green-eyed stranger now claiming to be Darren, and the pounding in my skull reminds me that this is not a fever dream.

“You’re who now?”

“Darren Ford,” he repeats, hauling my Darren off the seat and into the middle of the desolate road lined with trees that look alive.

Of course, the backdrop for my impending murder. I mean, where the fuck are we?

I stumble out of the car, clutching my head. “Wait— so, let me get this straight. If you are Darren Ford, then who the hell did I just marry?”

“Devlin,” my so-called husband finally speaks, a smirk plastered across his smug face. “Devlin Ford.”

They are… related?

Darren— the real one, looks ready to combust. His fist is cocked, while his other hand has a death grip around Devlin's collar. “This is a new low, even for you, Devlin. What the fuck were you thinking, huh?!”

Devlin jerks away. “Payback for your last prank,” he shrugs. “Consider us even.”

“Even?” Darren slams him hard against the limo. “Even? You hijacked my wedding! Marry my wife in front of a thousand cameras. Explain how the hell that's even!”

Their driver, safe at a distance, watches with a familiarity I immediately understood. He's seen this circus before.

Which means this psychotic family switcheroo is just another Tuesday for the Ford family.

Meanwhile, I'm spiraling. “I’m sorry, am I the only one not high on crack here? Did you two seriously just… swap grooms?”

“Your last ‘surprise’ nearly cost Mike his legs,” Devlin snarls at his brother, ignoring me.

He speaks with such wildness that it rivals the demeanor of the man I’d married earlier. “At least your trophy bride is intact. I bet Daddy would be so proud.”

He shoves Darren out of the way, produces a key from his pocket and a car across the road chirps alive. “Next time, brother, make your games less predictable,” Devlin adds, “I was yawning halfway through your wedding vows.”

He strolls off like a villain in a movie, and I just watch him go, wondering if I should laugh, scream, or vomit.

I turn sharply to a very frustrated Darren, beads of perspiration shining atop his forehead. “Do you want to explain what the freak just happened or should I call my father and have him send a firing squad?”

“Get in the car,” he grits out.

“Excuse me?”

“Please,” he forces out, “I’ll explain. Just… get in.”

I huff, dragging myself back inside. “You had better. If a helicopter falls on us next, I’m suing.”

Something like a smile materializes on his face and so does the urge to smack it off within me.

Someone better explain why I have two grooms before I start shooting.

***

Here's what I've learned:

The Ford Brothers are clinically insane, suicidal, and homicidal freaks. Darren waters it down but even he rammed into a limo today.

The bar is underground.

“So he crashed my wedding just to mess with you?” I ask, because saying it aloud makes it sound only slightly less deranged.

“Yes,” Darren admits.

The contrast between them is striking.

Darren has a quiet steadiness, polished even in his anger, while Devlin… Devlin is a wildfire trapped in a suit, with enough smugness to make me want to rip his head off.

“Well, if this is your idea of fun, count me out, okay? I married you for my father's sake so keep your death wish to yourself.”

“I understand,” he says coolly. “We didn’t exactly have time to…get to know each other.”

“And I assume there’s no need for that,” I counter. “Will that be a problem?”

He looks at me like I have sprouted horns. “No. Since we share no feelings, living under the same roof and keeping up appearances won't be a problem. I stay out of your life and you out of mine.”

“Lovely,” I mutter, then freeze. “Appearances? Devlin was the one in the wedding photos, who do I smile at the cameras with now?”

The look on Darren’s face says he hasn't thought that far. Excellent. Just excellent.

The limo pulls up at last before a sprawling mansion that makes my father's look like a summer cottage.

Great. Sold off, switched at the altar, and now trapped in a palace of lunatics. Just my kind of fairytale.

I’m led in, the maids taking my bag and shoes the moment I stepped into the rather gorgeous living room.

The mansion swallows me whole, marble floor gleaming like ice beneath my feet.

My things don’t come in till tomorrow. Darren orders one of his maids to show me to my room. I am glad he isn’t pretending we are a real couple but it’s also embarrassing how he doesn't try.

“Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He also vanishes. The brothers do have something in common after all.

The maids lead me up a sweeping staircase and past endless hallways where every door dares to be open. At last, she opens one.

The bedroom is spacious, with a four-poster bed sitting at its center. It needs a little touch but it will do for tonight.

I crawl into bed without taking off my dress, needing to sleep the day’s madness off.

Tomorrow, it’ll all be a dream.

**

Spoiler: it is so not a dream.

I wake up wrapped in unfamiliar sheets, in an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar walls. My eyes pry open forcefully, the fatigue from the accident weighing deeply on my bones.

I fumble through the headboard for my phone and when I grab it, the screen is still terribly cracked.

Worse, no maid brings me breakfast in bed. Not even stale toast.

My mind spins to that cocky bastard Devlin. Gosh! There obviously are things worse than death and I keep unlocking every level of it.

I should get a new phone and call my father, not that he would care.

I shuffle downstairs in the hideous pajamas I found in the closet. The house is as quiet as a graveyard, not one maid in sight.

“Hello? Anybody home?”

Where’s my husband? The word gives me jitters— husband. Ew. When I get to the nearest living room, it smells like bacon and eggs.

Who raised these people?

The mahogany table holds a full English spread. My stomach grumbles with hunger but that doesn’t make this ethical atrocity okay.

“What animal eats breakfast in the living room?” I grumble. A shadow falls over me.

That animal,” a familiar voice drawls, “would be me.”

I glance sideways and nearly choke. There he is. Devlin Ford, shirtless, amused and looking every inch the bastard who ruined my wedding.