CHAPTER 11: CHAPTER 11: CONTACTING MY HUSBAND TO BE (II)

Alexia POV

I stormed back home, determined to get this over with. First, I needed to locate the one thing I barely used: my phone. Yes, my phone. Go ahead, judge me. I know what you’re thinking: Who in this day and age doesn’t use their phone regularly? Well, that would be me.

Why, you ask? Simple. What’s the primary purpose of a phone? Communication. And there’s the issue—I have no one to communicate with.

Friends? None. Nope, not one. Before you start feeling sorry for me, I actually prefer it this way. Most people think I’m demented anyway, and I’m perfectly fine with that. I don’t poke into their business, and they don’t poke into mine. Works like a charm.

Social media? Forget it. Why would I waste my time scrolling through pictures of people flaunting their so-called perfect lives? It’s a one-way ticket to Depressionville, and I already have a lifetime pass. Paying for internet just to make myself miserable? No, thank you.

As for actual calls? The only ones I get are from:

Bartenders calling me to pick up my drunken mother (a recurring theme in my life). My now ex-boss, who thankfully won’t be calling anymore since I got fired. Silver linings, right? My landlord, who bombards me with calls when I can’t pay rent. My typical strategy? Hide until I can scrape together enough cash.

So, yeah. I don’t use my phone much. Oh, and let’s not forget that the thing is ancient—cracked screen and all. Why? Because my mom, in one of her drunken fits, mistook it for the TV remote. When it didn’t change the channel, she hurled it across the room in frustration. Lovely, isn’t she?

Anyway, enough about my sad little device. I dug through the mess that was my apartment until I found it buried under a stack of old bills. Time to call the assistant of the almighty Mr. Almond Milk.

The number I’d written down in the cyber café was faint, but legible. I dialed it and waited. After two rings, someone picked up.

"Hello," came a deep, smooth voice that was surprisingly... sexy.

For a split second, I hesitated. Then I rolled my eyes at myself and said, "Tell your boss his fiancée is calling."

Silence.

"...What? Who is this? Is this a joke?"

Before he could launch into an interrogation, I cut him off. "Just tell Mr. Almond Milk to call me back on this number. I lost his stupid card."

The guy started stammering, "Wait, who—"

"Listen," I said, exasperated, "make sure the message gets to him. If I don’t get a call soon, you’ll be in charge of finding him a new wife. Got it?"

And with that, I hung up.

Yeah, I know. Rude. But do I care? Absolutely not.

The truth is, I’m not desperate to marry Mr. Almond Milk. Sure, he’s rich and all, but that’s not why I’m agreeing to this insanity. I’m doing it because he’s one of the people from my past life. And if my hunch is correct, he remembers it too.

The real question is: Was he involved in my murder?

Why else would he want to marry me? Revenge, maybe? If he’s not the one who killed me, he might know who did. Either way, I need answers.

And if that means marrying the guy, so be it.

It was lunchtime, and guess what? The stupid rich jerk

still hadn’t called. Figures. Did I expect him to jump at my demand? Maybe. Was I annoyed? Absolutely.

Whatever. My stomach was growling like an angry bear, and I had to focus on the more pressing matter: finding something edible in my sad excuse for a fridge. I was practically scavenging through the shelves, eyeing a questionable slice of bread, when my phone rang.

For a moment, I froze. My ancient phone’s ringtone was so unexpected I nearly dropped it. I snatched it up and answered. "Hello?"

A dry chuckle came from the other end, and my stomach sank. I recognized that smug tone instantly.

"So, you lost my card, huh?"

Great. It was him. Mr. Almond Milk himself. His voice was smooth, but it carried that same air of arrogance that made my teeth clench.

Before I could retort, he added with a tinge of amusement, "Oh, and before I forget—did you refer to me as Mr. Almond Milk to my assistant?"

My face flushed. So, the assistant did tell him. I debated denying it but realized it was pointless.

"Uh... maybe?" I said, trying to sound casual. "It’s not a big deal."

He let out a soft laugh. "Not a big deal? Well, the name seems to have stuck, at least with you."

"Well," I shot back, "it’s less intimidating. Easier to deal with."

He hummed as though considering my words. "Interesting logic."

Before I could bite out another sarcastic comment, he continued, his tone shifting to businesslike. "I’ll send you the address. Meet me there in the Evening. And, Alex..."

"What?" I snapped, already annoyed.

"Dress decently," he said, the smugness in his voice practically oozing through the phone.

And just like that, he hung up.

I stared at my phone, resisting the urge to throw it across the room. Dress decently? What the hell did that even mean? Did he think I ran around in rags or something?

Still fuming, I turned back to my depressing hunt for food. If I was going to face him tonight, I’d need all the energy I could get—both to keep my composure and to resist the temptation to throw something at his perfectly smug face.

And then it hit me.

Wait a damn minute.

How the hell did he know my name?

I hadn’t told him. I was sure of it. Not once had I said, "Hi, I’m Alexia, your so-called fiancée who you decided to randomly propose to on the street." No, he knew, and that could only mean one thing: the fucker had done research on me.

"Stupid, rich jerk," I muttered under my breath, my annoyance bubbling into a full-on internal rant. Of course, he’d looked into me. Probably had my entire life story on some fancy digital file by now. My broke existence must’ve been quite the entertaining read for him.

But then, as my frustration simmered, an idea crept into my mind—a wicked, brilliant idea. I smiled, the kind of smile you’d expect from a cartoon villain plotting something delightfully petty.

If he expected me to show up in some polished, elegant outfit, looking like I belonged at one of his stupid, expensive parties, he was in for a rude awakening.

Dress decently? Pfft. I was definitely not going to dress decently. For one, I didn’t own anything "decent," let alone "expensive." My wardrobe consisted of a rotating collection of sweatpants, hoodies, and a few tattered jeans. But more importantly, why on earth would I go out of my way to please him?

You all should know me by now. That’s just not my style.

So, I made a vow right there and then: whatever I wore tomorrow, it would be unapologetically me. Maybe I’d dig out my oldest hoodie, the one with the spaghetti stain that wouldn’t come off. Or those ripped jeans that made me look like I’d just come back from surviving the apocalypse.

The thought of walking into his world of tailored suits and pristine dresses wearing my most chaotic outfit filled me with a spark of joy.

Yeah, Mr. Almond Milk, do your worst.