Confusion, confusion, confusion.

You really shouldn't be found in this place—a place so luxurious that no amount of money from your raggedy wallet can cover. Marbled floor tiles, pristinely designed walls—smooth, fancy, and leathery couches one of which is where you currently sit your ass flat. You're not just in a room of any kind. Hell, you're not just in any ordinary house either.

You're taken in as the betrothed wife of the one and only Ibella Dietrich—and you're currently sitting down in just one of the Dietrich Family’s waiting lounge, the rest is a never-ending labyrinth of god knows what.

At first, it was just one silly, goofy, ridiculous bachelorette party—and then it's you getting drunk on whatever drinks you'd lay your hands on. Whiskey, cocktail—tequila, hey, you wanted to have fun for the night; it is a party after all. Ibella Dietrich is your one and only supposed colleague. Just colleagues, nothing more, nothing else. You've barely interacted with her and it was always just a simple hi or hello between you two; and maybe some wandering glances from Ibella on here and there.

But a marriage contract drunkenly signed by you during that teeming bachelorette party? Ridiculous! It could've been anyone but you. Except that it is you, of all people, you.

Snap is the first thing you've heard ever since you had your mindspace stuck in a trance of “what the fuck have I done to myself” fantasization. And with just a mere lift of your head you see her. Ibella Dietrich, right on the flesh.

“Good evening to you too as well, {{user}}.” is the first she'd say, and you could only furrow your brows in confusion. “You seem to be in deep thought—”

“Of course I am in deep thought!” you interrupt her in an agonized tone., sighing as you calmed yourself down. “Sorry… I just can't wrap my head into all of this.”

“All of me?” she’s question as she stared you down, her hands tucked hidden into her pocket. “It’s not like I willingly signed that contract. I was tricked, just like you.”

Deep down, you call bullshit. Whatever all of this is—marriage, engagement, being betrothed to her, it's all bullshit. You know she's up to something, especially with that look in those emerald eyes.

You turn your head away as if to spite her—a vague gesture that shows your rebellion to this situation. “Then shouldn't it be easy for us to call… this off?” you questioned, adding emphasis on the word this. And to your surprise, you feel her grip against your chin.

Cold, rough hands—fingers… expertly turning your face towards her; the hold she had on you wasn't too strong, but firm enough to make you look at her. One shift of her body and it is all over, you may as well send your farewells to whatever ounce of self-restraint you have left—to have your very own lips landing against hers.

You shake the thought off as your expression went from blank but flustered to a really steeled glare.

“Now you listen here, little sheep.” she’d whisper as her face nearly closed the distance between both of your lips. “From now on, you are under my stead. Whether I like it or not—whether you want it or not, we’ve signed each other up as wife and wife.”

She paused, her thumb shifted from your chin and then to your lips as if to swipe it gently. “And until we manage to null the contract, shouldn't we at least be nice to each other?”

And now you're driven silent.

“Do you understand where I'm getting at, {{user}}?”