For Worse

Jamison

“You have to be fucking kidding me.”

The words slip out before I can stop them. Low under my breath, but somehow still loud enough to earn me a sharp glance from my mother.

Classic me.

Charm first, filter second.

I tear my eyes away from my parents and shift them to the girl—no, the woman—sitting across from me.

Noelle Kinnsley.

She looks like she belongs here- belongs with me.

She’s sitting prim and polished like she owns the room—which, let’s be real, she basically does. She’s always known how to perform when an audience is watching.

Soft pink skirt. White button-up blouse. Shiny hair twisted into one of those neat little buns that probably took an entire can of hairspray to keep in place.

And yet…

Her lips twitch—not quite a smile, more like a smirk hiding behind Sunday manners. “Oh, trust me, Jamison,” she whispers, voice honeyed and sharp all at once, just for me. “It’s not like I’m thrilled about this either. It’s not exactly like I have a choice, is it?”

There it is. That bittersweet tone I’ve known since we were kids. The one that’s always crawled under my skin like an itch I can’t scratch.

I frown, leaning back in my chair, arms crossing before I can stop myself.

What the hell does she have to be bitter about?

Her life is practically golden.

Now here she is, playing the part of the good little bride-to-be with her pretty doe eyes, soft perfume, and her hands folded neatly in her lap.

Fake as hell, and she knows I know it.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d spin out of my skull. Instead, I redirect my glare back to my parents.

“I’m not marrying her.” I can’t stop the way my voice comes out—sharp and stubborn; heavy on the defiance and light on the grace.

There’s a childish edge in my tone, and yeah… even I wince a little when I hear it.

Still, I don’t stop.

“Even if she were the last woman on earth, I wouldn’t even think about marrying her.”

Dramatic? Absolutely, but hey sometimes you have to commit to the bit.

My parents exchange one of those looks—the kind that makes my stomach drop before they’ve even opened their mouths.

Here it comes.

My mom leans over and whispers something to my dad, too quiet for me to catch. They both turn back to me, twin expressions of polite, controlled disappointment stretched across their faces.

That’s the thing about my family. They never raise their voices. Never yell. They smile while they sharpen the knives.

I blink slowly, ice settling in my chest as the realization lands.

I walked right into this.

Months ago, back when my father first mentioned the idea of an arranged marriage, I was the idiot who said, “Sure, I’m open to it.”

Hell, I practically told them I’d prefer it.

I thought it’d be easy.

A get-out-of-dating-free card.

Relationships are messy. Women always want more from me than I’m willing to give. I’m too busy for that. I work too much. My band is my real marriage, anyway.

So, yeah at the time I thought, “Screw it. Let them pick someone.” I figured that way I wouldn’t have to pretend to care. Whoever they picked probably would either be in the same boat as me or, at the very least, also just wouldn’t view marriage as a big deal.

What I didn’t factor in?

That they’d pick her.

Of all the women in the entire damn world, they just had to choose Noelle fucking Kinnsley.

My gaze flicks back to her. For half a second I almost laughed.

This is the girl who used to sneak over to my house when we were kids because her parents wouldn’t let her eat junk food.

We used to sit on my bedroom floor, splitting up bags of sour candy, her in one of those ridiculous outfits her mom forced on her, telling me her family secrets like we were spies.

I remember the way she used to smile back then. Too wide, and too real.

Not the polite Noelle smile she gives the cameras now. Not the actress smile.

That was a long time ago.

The girl from back then?

Gone.

Replaced by the Noelle sitting in front of me now. All polished edges and silent daggers.

I glance back at my parents, jaw tightening. “There’s no way I’m marrying her. Pick someone else.”

My father lifts a hand—cool, controlled, like always—cutting me off before I can say more.

“You said you were open to an arranged marriage, Jamison.” His voice is smooth, like he’s reading from a teleprompter. “You agreed to marry whomever we found suitable. Noelle meets all the qualifications. All the things you said you preferred. She’s beautiful, well-mannered, and comes from a good family. She even has her own career that won’t clash with yours.”

He gestures to her like she’s some kind of checklist come to life.

I almost choke.

Yeah, sure. She’s beautiful.

That part is unfortunately true. As much as I want to sit here and deny it, I’ve got eyes, and they don’t stop working just because I dislike her.

Her hair is that light brown shade that looks gold under the right lighting, glossy and pin-straight like it was cut and styled by some overpriced celebrity salon—which, knowing her, it probably was.

Her lips? A natural soft pink, like she was born wearing the exact color every makeup brand tries to recreate.

Her skin? That porcelain glow casting directors lose their minds over. Smooth. Cool. Practically reflecting light.

She shifts in her seat, crossing one leg over the other, and my gaze does this quick, automatic thing I hate.

Curse there traitorous eyes.

Her body’s lean, all smooth lines and long legs, but there’s just enough curve at her hips to remind me she’s real—not some mannequin from a store window.

Her chest is smaller than what most actresses would dare get away with in her world. Most of them get things added, lifted, fixed—whatever it takes to fit the image.

But her?

Somehow, she hasn’t.

She gets away with it.

Maybe it’s just that when you look like that, no one’s paying attention to what you don’t have.

Her eyes cut to me. Light brown, the same shade as her hair, framed in lashes I’m sure aren’t fake but look like they could be.

She smiles, and I catch the flash of dimples. Deep ones. The kind that used to make her look sweet when we were younger.

Back then, I thought they were cute.

Now?

They’re just weapons.

Well-mannered, though?

I almost laughed out loud.

I could write a damn trilogy about all the ways she isn’t.

Behind closed doors, she’s ruthless. Sharp tongue. Quick wit. Queen of backhanded compliments and fake sympathy.

She doesn’t play fair.

She plays to win.

Maybe that’s what irks me the most, because I’m the same way.

Somehow, here we are—stuck together again.

Me. Her. Back in the same space. Same game. Only this time? The stakes are marriage.

I’m still trying to figure out how the hell I let this happen.

“Mr. Lee,” Noelle says suddenly, interrupting the room with a voice so sweet it could rot everyone’s teeth.

Her words are aimed at my dad, but her gaze slides sideways, pinning me in place.

“With all due respect, you’re flattering me too much.” She lets out a tiny, perfect sigh. “How could I ever be a match for the great Jamison Lee? Lead singer of one of the most trending upcoming bands right now?” Her lips curl up into that fake-friendly smile I know too well.

If I didn’t know her, I’d think she meant it.

I do know her though, better than I want to admit.

I know very well that she’s mocking me.

“It’s my mother’s dying wish,” she continues, a delicate tear slipping down her cheek. “She wants to see me married into a family who’s always welcomed her. I’m sure she’ll understand though that Jam doesn’t want to. Her heart might break…but she’ll come to terms before she passes, I’m sure.” She gives a soft sniff.

A glance at me, then back at my parents.

Perfectly rehearsed.

I grind my teeth.

How fake can you get?

I know exactly what she’s doing. Making me the bad guy, twisting the knife, knowing damn well I won’t rip her apart in front of my family.

Especially not when she brings up her mom.

Still, I don’t back down. “I can’t marry Noelle,” I say, my voice sharpening like a blade. “I won’t do it.”

It’s not just a protest—it’s a declaration.

A line in the sand.

And then my father leans forward slightly, eyes cool and unreadable, his tone calm enough to make my skin crawl.

“Then you’ll give up your career.”

His words land like a slap.

“You’ll give up the band, the endorsements, the label. If you refuse this marriage, you’ll lose everything. He disowned.”

Just like that, the silence in the room shifts—heavy, suffocating.

For a second, I actually think about telling him to go to hell.

I can’t because I know what this really means.

My father isn’t just some background figure in my life.

He’s the reason the band took off.

Not because he believed in the music—he doesn’t even listen to it. I’m not even sure he knows the lyrics to a single song.

When it became obvious that I wasn’t cut out for the family business—when I skipped business school meetings to sneak into basement gigs, when I bombed those internship interviews on purpose—he pivoted like the cold-blooded executive he is.

He decided to manage me instead.

Well, not officially. We’ve always had someone else listed as the manager for PR reasons, but everyone knows who really pulls the strings.

He’s the one who brought in sponsors. Set up deals. Greased the right palms.

I wasn’t stupid, though. I knew well that it wasn’t because he believed in my talent.

It was because he doesn’t believe in failure.

Not when it comes to his son.

If I wasn’t going to be the next CEO of his company, then I was damn well going to be the next rock star or die trying.

Now he was telling me he was willing to ruin it all and cut me off.

My mind scrambles, looking for a trapdoor, a loophole, any possible way out.

There isn’t one.

I suck in a slow breath, feeling my throat tighten.

“When’s the wedding?” I sigh, defeated. The words come out flat. Cold. Like I’m already halfway dead.

From the corner of my eye, I see it. That tiny smirk. Noelle’s lips curved up smugly.

She thinks she’s won, but this isn’t over. I can’t wait to wipe that look off her face.

She might have tricked me into this marriage, but she’s about to find out exactly what it’s like to be married to someone who hates her.

I stare at her from across the table

Noelle, don’t think I’ve forgotten what you did.

I don’t care how pretty you look in pink skirts and polite smiles.

I will not let you live a happy life, not as long as you’re stuck with me.