Silva and the Stars

1 | my bride is trying to kill me

"I swear my bride is trying to kill me." I run a hand through my dirty blonde hair, shoving it back from my forehead.

"I don't blame her. I can't imagine being married to you and not trying to kill you a few times," Derrick replies, loud and clear, through the Bluetooth earphones I'm wearing.

I laugh, placing my hands on the balcony and looking out over the sprawling grounds that surround our honeymoon mansion. Derrick is as good as a brother to me, and the only person who knows the truth about my marriage.

"I just thought it was common courtesy not to kill off your partner mere days after the nuptials," I muse. "At least wait a week, you know?"

Derrick snorts and I can hear someone asking him a question in the background. "The red one," he answers. 

We met in boarding school – like all sons of rich parents who have their name on the enrolment registry before birth, alongside a hefty 'donation'. We both realised early that success could make parents neglectful; overly concerned with appearances and less about how you were functioning as a person.

He'd been sitting beside me in Year 1 when I had peed myself in Mrs Lewis' classroom. He didn't say a word as a puddle gathered around the bottom of my chair, unlike Simon, sitting on my other side, who gleefully announced the information to the whole class. Simon also added the nickname 'Peewee Jonny' which stuck for longer than I care to admit.

Derrick and I had been inseparable ever since that embarrassing moment. We shared a fancy penthouse suite during university; we carried each other home after drunk nights spent on the town, we confided in each other about our relationships and inevitable heartbreaks. He'd been present when I'd broken up with the girl who tattooed my name over her heart.

But he hadn't been there when I was married.

"What did she do?" There's an unspoken this time tacked on to his question. In the last few days, Derrick has fielded an insurmountable amount of calls on this topic.

"Motorbiking. She signed me up to a motorbiking course. Of course, my ego -"

"And fragile masculinity?" Derrick adds dryly.

"- couldn't back down when I saw it was on her itinerary for me today. I was way out of my league. It was on a dirt track, there were jumps, and people were doing flips and shit. I almost broke my arm when I careened over the handles on the first jump."

"Maybe she secretly wants you incapacitated so she can look after you."

"Have you met Rachel?" I ask in disbelief. "The only reason she'd willingly go near me is to slit my throat at night."

Derrick chuckles. "That's a shame. I wish you the best Jon, I do. But maybe it's worth calling it quits? The company isn't worth your misery and servitude for the rest of your - from the sounds of it - short existence."

"No," I growl. "That's the thing, I think she's testing my mettle. To see whether I'm prepared for what we're going to face. And this isn't my whole life, we agreed to divorce as soon as the board accepts our proposal. Until our father's company is safe from Connor."

"Or maybe she's just trying to kill you off," Derrick returns wryly. "Your first suggestion wasn't all that stupid. Doesn't it all go to her if you die?"

The thought chills me. Maybe that was her intention all along. But could Rachel really be that cold-hearted?

My eyes flicker to the gates opening, a small figure on a blue bike cycling through them, then winding toward our honeymoon mansion.

"Speak of the devil," I murmur, unable to take my eyes off her.

"Who's there? Is it Rachel?"

Her black hair is kissing the wind, and her brown skin positively glows. It's hard to think that the angel below me has one iota of darkness in her.

Until her gaze lands on me – casually standing on the balcony, surveying her – and a scowl transforms her cheery disposition. If her fiery gaze is any indication, she isn't above killing me off.

She glowers up at me. "You're back early." Her voice is flat.

I gulp.

How can I feel so small when I am standing meters above her? And looking down on her.

"I have to go," I tell Derrick, before adding, "If you don't hear back from me in 24 hours, assume I'm dead, and please send over a hearse."

I hang up to the sound of Derrick's muffled laughter and take my earphones out.

Then I lean over the edge of the balcony. "Oh Rachel Rachel, wherefore art thou –"

Rachel hops off her bike with ease, and she steers the handlebars toward the house.

"Stop the smush. Leave it for someone who cares," she tosses the words out, not even bothering to look at me anymore, as she disappears under the awning of the house.

It's weird that those words hurt more than the injuries I sustained earlier.

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a/n: Thanks for reading! I'd be so grateful for any feedback you have so feel free to vote and comment your thoughts. ♡