My Substitute Bride Wasn't Supposed to Bite

The bar was deafening, but Clarice Sullivan was floating too high on adrenaline to care. She'd just pulled off a killer prank on her obnoxious half-sister, Lydia, and the thrill was still singing in her veins. This called for a celebration. She let herself go, drink after drink, melting into the euphoric buzz. So when her best friend, Chloe, leaned in with a wild dare, Clarice didn't hesitate.

"Alright, Clarice," Chloe yelled over the music, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Here's the bet: if the next person through that door is a guy, you go up and kiss him-right on the lips. No excuses. If you do it, I'll cover your drinks for a month. If you chicken out. you have to post that cringey baby photo of you in the bathtub on your Instagram story. Deal?"

"Deal! A bet is a bet-spit it out!" Clarice laughed. The buzz in her head kept her from realizing just how audacious this wager really was. Kissing a man! She seemed to have completely forgotten she was a substitute bride.

Perhaps her boldness came from her completely new look: pink hair, a black sequined crop top, and ripped denim shorts. But the real statement was her makeup - daring neon eyeshadow and blood-red lips. She looked nothing like her usual self.

Just then, the door swung open. A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped inside, silhouetted against the dim light. A man. Clarice's heart gave a rebellious leap.

"Go get him, tiger!" Chloe urged, giving her a push.

This was it. The ultimate act of defiance. She strode toward him, the crowd seeming to part for her. He was tall, so she had to tilt her head up, her eyes landing first on his perfectly sculpted lips. They looked. frustratingly kissable.

"C'mere, handsome," she breathed, rising onto her toes and closing the distance.

Her lips met his.

And for a single, shocking second, something felt. familiar.

Then, a vise-like grip clamped onto her wrist, yanking her away. "Get off me," a voice snapped, cold enough to freeze the air in her lungs.

Clarice stumbled back, her wrist throbbing. But the bet was won. She flashed a triumphant grin back at Chloe before turning, finally, to really look at him.

The world slowed to a crawl.

He was devastatingly handsome, with a jawline sharp enough to cut and eyes so intense they seemed to pin her in place. But his gaze was glacial, filled with pure, undiluted annoyance.

And. she knew that face.

Not from magazines or society pages. No.

The recognition hit her - she had seen that face in her bed.

"Theo-" The name choked in her throat, a strangled whisper. Her blood turned to ice.

Oh, god. No.

Theodore Grant. Her husband, and the head of the Grant family, one of Velmont's five major powers.

To nineteen-year-old Clarice, thirty-one-year-old Theodore seemed old enough to be her uncle. The rumors about him never ceased-some claimed he was grotesquely ugly, others that he preferred