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What was I thinking agreeing to this scheme? It’s more a headache than a solution. Cal is right: I literally could have found a bride in no time. And yet I jumped at this opportunity.

Because she beguiled me two years ago, and when she finally fell into my lap, so to speak, I couldn’t resist. And now, I don’t know what I want anymore, and that’s the feeling I hate the most. It’s all her fault.

The car pulls through my gate and stops in front of my house. My phone rings.

Art Mathison?

That’s fast. I briefed him only two days ago. The former hacker specializes in cybersecurity and surveillance.

“What did you find?” I don’t bother with greetings. The man hates socializing. I admire him for that.

“I sent you an encrypted file.”

“What’s on it?”

He groans. “If you don’t know how to read, use text-to-speech.” He hangs up.

I push the front door open, and the smell of fresh paint assaults me immediately. I walk around my entry table, following the smell, but I stop.

A large flower arrangement reigns on the table instead of my hundred-thousand-dollar statue. I guess my blushing bride made herself at home. I can’t say I mind this little touch. It’s warmed up the large, cold foyer.

Let’s hope the painting job—because the smell suggests she didn’t stop with the flowers—is equally pleasant.

That hope dies a quick death when I step into the living room. Or at least what used to be my living room.

This room doesn’t look like it. Unless someone ate several kilos of Smarties and then vomited all over my walls.

And where the hell is my furniture? Is that a sex chair by the window? And a real-size stuffed giraffe? Right next to an antique-looking statue?

And what’s with the fucking antlers on the wall? This is not a hunting cottage. Or a safari. Or a museum of design mistakes.

I cross the hallway to the dining room. Kill. Me. Now.

My solid-wood dining set, hand-fucking-made in Italy, is gone. Instead, there is a red faux-leather booth like this was some fucking diner. There is even a jukebox in the corner.

The Morrigan.I’m going to kill her.

I rush to the kitchen. Thank God it’s unchanged. Livia steps from the pantry and smiles.

“Mr. Quinn, you’re back. Should I warm up something for you to eat?” She puts down a basket with vegetables.

“I’m not hungry. Where is Saar?” I tap my fingers on the marble counter.

“I think she went upstairs. She must be tired, bossing around those poor workers for two days.”

I bet she is tired. She will also be sorry. “Thank you, Livia.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat? Ms. Saar has barely eaten, and there are so many meals in the fridge.”

“Take them home, Livia. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?”That way I can kill my fiancée without witnesses.

“Thank you, Mr. Quinn. I’ll be back in the morning then. Could you ask Ms. Saar to let me know if there are workers coming tomorrow?”

“No,” I bark, startling her. “The redecoration project is over.” I tame my voice. This is not Livia’s fault.

“Thank God,” she mutters, and starts gathering her things.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey, hoping to find composure. Damn woman. She oozes style even when she wears a simple pair of jeans, so this is clearly an attempt to piss me off.