The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

JASON’S POV

I swear, I don’t know what to call this anymore. It’s like walking on broken glass, or maybe it’s more like dealing with a demoness. No, scratch that—a witch. Yeah, that’s a better description. You never know when she’s going to cast her damn spell, and before you know it, you’re under her control.

So, when she told me about the event, I already knew it was going to be hell. I had that sinking feeling in my gut, like I’d just stepped into a trap with no way out. I knew I wasn’t going to get through this without losing some part of my dignity.

She’d decided we were going to wear matching clothes. Matching. And yeah, as much as I hated to admit it, the idea didn’t sound all that bad in the beginning. There was something oddly charming about it... but I knew better. I could feel the strings of manipulation at play. It was a trap. A carefully laid one at that.

At first, I resisted. I tried to put up a fight, to refuse. There was no way I was going to go along with her plans, especially not after everything that had happened between us. But then... she reminded me. She reminded me of the bet. That damn bet that’s been hanging over my head like a dark cloud, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

And that was it. I caved. I didn’t want to hear any more about that stupid bet, but I knew better than to argue. I wasn’t going to win this fight.

And as much as I loved the idea I hated that instead of representing two people in love only she and I knew what it meant. A prisoner. Her toy to disembelled when she wasn’t pleased. But who could I blame if not myself it was I, my stupid arrogance created what she is today. It was like I was paying the consequences of being a jerk and creating a bitter Ella.

I put on the suit she picked for me, matching her dress like some sort of damn puppet. I hated it. I hated how it felt, how it looked, and most of all, I hated how she was smiling like she had just won some kind of twisted victory.

It’s amazing how quickly she can go from cold and distant to... well, whatever she was now. Her sweetness was all an act—an act I had to play along with. We had to look like the perfect couple for the event. It didn’t matter what either of us felt; what mattered was the image we projected. And for that, I was just a pawn.

We stepped into the event, and I couldn’t help but feel like we were a well-oiled machine on display for the world. The flashes of cameras, the whispers from the crowd, it all felt like we were in some sort of performance. And I was her supporting actor, grinning like an idiot, pretending everything was fine.

But deep down?

I was slowly losing my mind.

For a moment, I almost believed it—almost.

Ella was performing. God, she was performing so damn well that for a second, I thought I’d been stuck in some twisted nightmare. The way she smiled, the way her voice softened when she spoke to me—her sweet, loving words that were laced with just the right amount of warmth. Her light touch as she gently rested her hand on mine, the way she cooed at me as if we were this perfect, loving couple.

It was almost like everything was okay.

It felt so damn real for a moment, and I honestly thought that maybe, just maybe, this was the reality. Maybe I’d been wrong all along. Maybe she did love me. Maybe this whole thing was just some misunderstanding. I convinced myself, just for a second, that everything could be okay. That all the crap we’d been through—the distance, the anger, the betrayals—maybe it could all just go away.

But then... I looked into her eyes.

That’s when I knew.

I knew it wasn’t real.

Her eyes were cold, calculating, and distant—completely void of warmth. There was no softness, no affection. Instead, it was like looking into the eyes of a stranger, someone who had long since abandoned the person I thought I was married to. This wasn’t the woman I’d hoped for. This was a bitter, vengeful version of her. A woman playing a game—using me as her pawn.

My heart sank.

It felt like someone had just shoved a knife into my chest. That illusion of normalcy shattered in an instant. The mask she wore was flawless, but I could see through it. I could feel her bitterness beneath every touch, every word.

I’d been fooling myself.

For the rest of the night, I played along, forced to smile, nod, and act like everything was just fine. But deep down, I knew the truth. Ella wasn’t the person she used to be—she wasn’t the woman I thought I was marrying. I had no idea what had happened to her, but this? This wasn’t it.

As much as I wanted to believe it was all just a bad dream, reality was slapping me in the face. Ella was no longer the sweet, understanding person I had hoped would share my life. Now, she was a woman out for revenge, a woman with a plan, and I was right in the middle of it.

And God, I was trapped.

It was a kiss—a kiss that I had no choice but to endure.

The cameras flashed, the world watched, but inside, I felt like I was signing my soul away to some dark force. Ella’s lips pressed against mine, but it wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t tender. It felt like a deal being sealed in the underworld with a demoness. A deal I hadn’t signed up for, but one I was now stuck with.

Her lips brushed against mine, soft yet merciless, a kiss that should’ve been sweet—should’ve meant something—but instead felt like a warning. A taunt. The crowd around us erupted in applause, murmuring about how "in love" we looked, how perfect we were together. If only they knew.

I forced a smile as I pulled away, leaning down to whisper against her ear. "You’re enjoying this too much."

Ella’s smirk was small but deadly. She tilted my chin toward the flashing cameras with a perfectly practiced touch, her fingers cool against my skin.

"Oh, smile, darling," she cooed, voice laced with sugar-coated venom. "People are watching."

She took my chin and tilted it towards the camera, the cameras that had been flashing like mad since we walked in.

I did as I was told, lips curling into a grin I was sure looked as strained as I felt. The camera flashes were blinding, each snap a reminder that I was trapped in this performance, playing the devoted husband to a wife who would probably rather burn me alive than spend another second in my presence.

Her fingers lingered on my chin, too long, too calculated, and I couldn’t help but think that this wasn’t just for show. This was her power move. This was her controlling the narrative, showing the world that she had me, that we were the picture-perfect couple—even if it was all a lie.

I forced a smile, playing my part, because what else was there to do? What else could I do when I knew this was all just a game to her? It was easier to just let her lead, let her control the moment while I drowned in the feeling of being utterly out of place.

The cameras kept flashing, and I could feel the weight of the moment, of the performance, pressing down on me. The weight of Ella’s act, her perfect, smiling façade. She wasn’t the woman I thought I married. She was something else entirely, something that made me question every move I made.

The worst part? She was winning.

Because no matter how much I knew this was an act, it still got to me. The way she looked at me, the way her touch lingered just long enough to seem intimate, the way she owned the room without even trying—it was enough to make even me second-guess reality.

But then I’d look into her eyes.

And just like that, the illusion shattered.

I was in hell. And my wife?

She was the devil herself, grinning as she watched me burn.