The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine

Jason POV:

Okay let me explain calmly what actually happened.

Waking up felt like someone had parked a truck on my skull and then backed it up for good measure. My throat was drier than the Sahara Desert, and I was 90% sure a family of woodpeckers was drilling inside my brain.

What the hell happened last night?

I cracked one eye open. Bad idea. The light stabbed my retinas like a thousand tiny knives.

"Ugh," I groaned, trying to roll over.

And then I froze.

Because the scent of my cologne was in the air.

And I wasn’t in my guest room.

I was in Ella’s bed.

I shot up so fast I almost blacked out. My heart slammed against my ribs as the horrifying realization hit me like a truck—I spent the night in Ella’s room.

Holy. Freaking. Hell.

I turned my head slowly, bracing for the worst.

And there she was.

Ella Kingsley. My terrifying, vengeful wife.

Standing by the door, arms crossed, smirking like a cat that just caught a canary.

"Good morning, husband," she purred.

I gulped.

The smirk widened.

Oh, I was in trouble.

Big, fat, screw-my-life kind of trouble.

I swung my legs off the bed, ready to make a quick escape before she unleashed her wrath. But the second my feet hit the floor, my legs gave out.

Nope. I was not okay.

The room tilted at an alarming angle. My stomach did a backflip, and my head pounded like a drumline at a football game.

Ella took one look at me and snorted. Actually snorted.

"Wow. You look fantastic," she said, fake sympathy dripping from her voice.

"Ella..." I croaked. I needed water. Or death. Either worked.

She clapped her hands together. "Oh, don’t worry, love! I’ll take care of you."

That should have been my first warning sign.

But I was too hangover-stupid to notice.

Five minutes later, I found myself sitting at the kitchen counter, head in my hands, as Ella happily whipped up something in a blender.

I should have been suspicious. But my brain was currently offline, so when she slid a glass of murky green liquid in front of me, I took one look at it and groaned.

"What the hell is that?"

"Your cure."

"It looks like a swamp in a cup."

She beamed at me. "Drink up, darling."

I squinted at her. "Are you... enjoying this?"

She gave me the sweetest, most innocent smile.

Too sweet. Too innocent.

She was definitely enjoying this.

I sighed, took a deep breath, and gulped it down.

Instant regret.

It tasted like blended regret, grass, and pure evil.

I choked, gagged, and nearly died. "WHAT THE HELL DID YOU PUT IN THIS?!"

Ella grinned. "Raw eggs, pickle juice, ginger, a little turmeric... oh, and I might have thrown in some garlic for extra health benefits."

I slammed the glass down. "Garlic?! Are you trying to exorcise me?"

Ella patted my head like I was a toddler. "Aww, is my poor husband feeling grumpy?"

I groaned. "I hate you."

She beamed. "I know."

But She Wasn’t Done Yet.

After barely surviving her witch’s brew, I thought she’d leave me alone.

I was so wrong.

Because Ella Kingsley never forgets.

And she was still very pissed off about last night.

If I thought waking up in Ella’s bed was the worst part of my morning, I was horribly mistaken.

Because my delightful, sweet, angelic wife—who, by the way, had the devil’s soul—had footage of my drunken breakdown.

And she wasn’t afraid to use it.

"You know," she mused, twirling a spoon between her fingers, "I think fresh air would be great for you."

I blinked at her. "What?"

She slid a familiar invitation across the counter.

I squinted at it. Then my stomach dropped.

The Kingsley Foundation Charity Gala.

Today.

In two hours.

Holy hell.

"No. Absolutely not," I said immediately.

Ella pouted. "But husband, you promised to support my charity work."

"Ella—"

She batted her lashes. "You don’t want to break your promises, do you?"

I stared at her.

She grinned.

Oh, I was so freaking doomed.

I was still gagging when she casually slid her phone across the counter.

"By the way, darling," she said, her voice too sweet, "I thought you should see something."

My gut screamed at me not to look.

But I did.

And I regretted it immediately.

The screen played a very, very bad video.

Of me.

Drunk out of my mind.

Slurring nonsense.

Yelling at Max and Dylan about how Jake was touching my wife and how I was gonna challenge him to a duel like an 1800s aristocrat.

Oh, but the worst part?

The part that made my soul leave my body?

I was crying.

Yes. Full-on, emotional, drunk crying about Ella.

On video.

For the world to see.

I choked on my own shame. "WHAT THE HELL, ELLA?!"

She rested her chin on her hand, smirking. "Awww. You’re adorable when you’re emotional."

"DELETE IT."

She gasped dramatically. "Oh, but Jason, it’s such a beautiful moment! A husband crying about his love for his wife? It’s heartwarming."

I grabbed the phone. She snatched it back.

"Ella—"

She waved a finger. "Tsk tsk. Now, here’s the deal, darling."

I swallowed. This was not going to end well for me.

"You have two choices," she said, all smug. "One—" She held up a single finger. "You come with me to the Kingsley Foundation Charity Gala, behave like the perfect husband, and smile for the cameras."

I narrowed my eyes. "And two?"

She grinned. "Or I post this video online and let the world see just how deeply in love you are with me."

I almost died on the spot.

I could already picture the headlines.

❝ BILLIONAIRE HEIR JASON KING CRIES OVER WIFE IN DRUNKEN LOVE CONFESSION ❞

❝ JASON KING: SECRETLY A ROMANTIC FOOL? ❞

❝ REAL-LIFE ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS? WATCH THIS VIRAL CLIP OF JASON KING SOBBING OVER HIS WIFE! ❞

Hell no.

I glared at her. "You wouldn’t."

Ella twirled a strand of her hair. "Try me."

I inhaled deeply, massaged my temples, and weighed my two horrible options.

Attend a fancy event while hungover and miserable... or have my entire reputation ruined forever.

Yeah. I had no choice.

"Fine," I bit out.

Her eyes sparkled with victory. "Good boy."

I was going to die.

Fast forward two hours, and I found myself sweating in a tux, sitting in a ballroom under blinding chandeliers, suffering through the worst hangover of my life.

The music was too loud. The lights were too bright. The people were too many.

And worst of all?

Ella.

Smiling. Laughing. Acting like a damn angel.

While I sat there dying.

Every time I rubbed my throbbing temples, she would fake a gasp and say, "Oh dear, is my husband not feeling well? Should I fetch you some more of my special drink?"

I almost threw a bread roll at her face.

I was suffering.

The tux felt too tight.

The music was too loud.

The lights were too bright.

And worst of all?

Ella was glowing like the goddess of revenge.

She looked stunning in her sleek, dark blue dress, hair falling in perfect waves, her signature smirk firmly in place.

And she was having the time of her life watching me suffer.

"Oh, Jason," she sighed dramatically, "you look so handsome tonight. The press is going to eat this up."

I gritted my teeth. "I hate you."

She beamed. "I know."

But it got worse.

Because guess who showed up?

That slimy bastard Jake.

And guess who he made a beeline for?

MY WIFE.

Jake swaggered over like he owned the place, flashing his stupid, charming grin at Ella.

"Ella, always a pleasure," he said smoothly.

She smiled back. "Jake, good to see you."

Then Jake’s gaze slid to me.

He raised an eyebrow. "And... you’re looking... great, Jason."

I gave him a dead stare. "I hope you choke on your champagne."

Ella gasped dramatically. "Jason! Be nice."

Jake smirked. "It’s fine. I’d be grumpy too if I was forced to attend a gala while hungover."

Ella laughed.

I glared.

I hated everything.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the MC called Ella to the stage.

She stood up gracefully, winked at me, and whispered, "Smile, darling. People are watching."

And that was it.

That was the moment I knew—I was married to Satan’s favorite child.

And the worst part?

I was completely, hopelessly in love with her.

Even if she was the bane of my existence.