The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

JASON’S POV

I was exhausted.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

And apparently, I was also my drunk wife’s designated caretaker for the night.

Because just as I was about to tuck her in and finally escape, Ella’s expression suddenly twisted in discomfort.

"I don’t feel so good," she mumbled.

Before I could even process what was happening, she bolted out of the bed—or rather, stumbled out of the bed, staggering toward the bathroom with one hand clamped over her mouth.

I cursed under my breath and rushed after her.

By the time I reached her, she was already throwing up into the toilet, and I quickly crouched down, instinctively gathering her hair in my hands and pulling it back.

Great. Just great.

If I had known I’d be babysitting my wife tonight, I would’ve mentally prepared myself.

She coughed, groaned, then rested her forehead against the cool porcelain.

I let out a sigh before standing up to grab her a cup of water.

"Here," I said, handing it to her. "Rinse your mouth."

She sluggishly took the cup and did as instructed, swishing the water around before spitting it out.

Then, wiping her mouth, she turned to me with an accusing glare.

"You shouldn’t have let me drink that much."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You should’ve stopped me!" she whined.

I raised an eyebrow. "Ella, do you even hear yourself? You don’t even listen to me sober. How the hell was I supposed to stop you when you were drinking like a fish?"

She pouted, crossing her arms.

"Well, you should’ve tried harder," she muttered stubbornly.

I let out a deep breath.

There was no winning this argument.

Not with drunk Ella.

So, instead of fighting, I humored her.

"Fine," I said, lifting my hands in surrender. "Next time, I’ll stop you."

She narrowed her eyes at me.

"Promise?"

I sighed again. "I promise."

Did I mean it?

Yes.

Would it make a difference?

Hell no.

Even if I tried to stop her next time, she would still do whatever she wanted—then blame me for it afterward.

But at this point, I was too damn tired to argue.

So, after making that empty promise, I picked her up in my arms—again—ready to tuck her in and finally get some much-needed distance.

I carefully laid her back down on the bed, making sure she was comfortable before pulling the blanket over her.

Mission accomplished.

Time to leave.

I turned, ready to make my escape—

But just as I took a step away, she grabbed my hand.

I froze.

Then slowly turned back.

Ella was pouting, her eyes slightly glassy as she looked up at me.

"Where is my husband going?" she asked dramatically.

I stared at her.

"...To my room?" I replied carefully.

She tightened her grip on my hand.

"No," she mumbled, pulling me closer. "You can’t leave me."

I blinked.

My brain stalled for a moment, trying to process this sudden shift.

Just an hour ago, this woman wanted me dead.

And now?

Now, she was holding onto me like I was some kind of lifeline.

Drunk Ella is a menace.

And, unfortunately, I was the hostage.

I sighed, looking down at the drunk, spoiled, rich heiress who was currently clutching my hand like a child refusing to let go of their favorite toy.

"What else could I do but obey my darling wife?" I muttered under my breath, more to myself than to her.

Because let’s be honest—resisting Ella in this state was a lost cause.

I tried pulling my hand away gently, but she tightened her grip with surprising strength for someone so tipsy.

"Nooo," she whined, dragging out the word as she pouted up at me, her lower lip jutting out.

I blinked.

Did she just—?

Was she really—?

Was Ella Kingsley—the same cold-hearted vengeful woman who had made my life a nightmare—pouting at me?

I didn’t know whether to laugh or be terrified.

"Ella," I tried again, softly this time, "you need to sleep."

She shook her head dramatically, her loose hair falling over her face.

"Nooo," she slurred. "You can’t leave me."

I let out a breath, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"Ella, I—"

"If you leave, I’ll tell Daddy."

I froze.

Oh. Oh, she’s playing dirty now.

I stared at her, trying to figure out if she was bluffing—but with Ella, you never knew.

The woman was unpredictable even when sober, so drunk Ella? A whole new level of chaos.

I could already see it in my head—

Ella Kingsley, standing in front of her father, teary-eyed and dramatic:

"Daddy, Jason left me all alone at night when I was drunk! He doesn’t love me!"

And Mr. Kingsley, the devil himself, giving me a single look that would end my existence.

Yeah.

Not happening.

I exhaled sharply, weighing my options.

Option 1: Fight her on this and risk her drunkenly exposing our entire contract marriage to her father.

Option 2: Suck it up and stay the night—while praying for my survival.

Was it even a choice?

With a pained sigh, I sat back down on the bed.

Ella grinned triumphantly, like she had just won some war.

Which, honestly, she had.

"See?" she murmured, sleepily. "Good husband."

I rolled my eyes but didn’t reply.

Instead, I reached over and tucked her in properly, making sure the blanket covered her.

She snuggled into it, her eyes fluttering closed.

For a second, just a second, she looked peaceful.

Like the Ella I used to know.

The Ella I fell for.

But I knew better.

Because as soon as she sobered up, the Ice Queen would return—and I’d be back to living in my personal hell.

For now, though...

I’d take the win.

I sighed in resignation, adjusting the pillow behind my back as I settled on the bed beside her.

It wasn’t just about her blackmailing me into staying—though, let’s be honest, that was 90% of it.

It was also the fact that, as much as I hated to admit it... I was worried about her.

Sure, she was a spoiled, vengeful demoness when sober. But she was also my wife—contract or not.

And I knew how bad alcohol could hit after a night like this.

What if she woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick again?

What if she got a fever?

What if she needed someone, and I wasn’t there?

I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.

That was the thing about loving Ella Kingsley—even when she was the devil in heels, I still wanted to protect her.

Even if it meant signing up for another round of torture when she woke up sober.

I let out a long sigh, staring at the woman currently snuggled under the covers, looking deceptively innocent.

Deceptive. That was the key word.

Because the moment she sobered up, she’d revert back to the Ice Queen from hell, and my temporary moment of peace would be shattered.

But despite knowing that, despite everything she had put me through, I still couldn’t bring myself to leave.

As much as I valued my survival, there was something stronger than my self-preservation instincts.

Worry.

For her.

Yeah, even in her bitchiness, I still loved her.

And I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself if something bad happened to her while I wasn’t here.

Ella might be a demoness when she was sober, but right now? She was vulnerable.