Reborn to Wreck My Sister's Fairytale - Chapter 3: Chapter 3

"Are you okay?" Dominic's voice came out rough with desire.
His lips brushed mine in a fleeting kiss before pulling back, though his arms kept me locked against him. The intensity in his gaze burned through me as our eyes met.
My pulse skyrocketed.
This was our wedding night—no reason for shyness. I reached up to loop my arms around his neck, and in one fluid motion, he scooped me up and carried me upstairs.
"Charlotte. My Charlotte." His breath was hot against my skin. "Charlotte Clark? Doesn't matter what your name is—you're mine. The only woman I'll ever love in this lifetime."
His words dripped like honey, sweet and intoxicating. The whispered promises didn't stop as he made sure our first night together lasted until dawn painted the sky.
If I had to compare? My ex Jaxon was like a soggy toothpick. Dominic? A legendary dragon straight out of myth.
By morning, I was completely spent—boneless and drowsy. I didn't stir until the evening light slanted through the curtains.
"Dominic?"
The rich aroma of homemade soup wafted upstairs. Wincing slightly, I shuffled out of bed and peered over the railing.
There stood my dragon of a husband—shirtless, muscles flexing as he stirred the pot, wearing nothing but an apron adorned with a cartoon duck. The domestic absurdity of it made me blink.
Holy hell.
Every sculpted inch of him glistened under the kitchen lights, radiating raw masculinity. The sight was so unfairly attractive I fumbled for my phone—until Madison's Instagram notification flashed across the screen.
Posted that morning: a marriage certificate with Jaxon. Officially Mrs. Jaxon now.
When I didn't react by evening, she'd sent follow-ups—a screenshot of her post and two venomous voice notes.
"Charlotte," her first message oozed faux sympathy, "you've seen the news by now, right? Jaxon's mine forever. The man who worshipped you in your past life? Gone. Bet that stings. Oh, and how's married life with that playboy Dominic? Wait—don't tell me he didn't even come home last night!" Her laugh was razor-sharp. "Photos don't lie, sweetheart. While you cried alone, your husband was clubbing with some bimbo on his lap. Pathetic."
Attached was a blatantly photoshopped image of Dominic at a nightclub, some woman draped over him.
The second message came through as I was rolling my eyes. "Face it—he'd rather pay for company than touch you. I'd die of shame."
Classic Madison. Trying to break me like she'd been broken in her past life.
As if I'd fall for that.
I screenshot the evidence (future defamation lawsuit material) just as a muscular arm reached over my shoulder and plucked the phone from my grip.
"What's got my wife so distracted?" Dominic murmured, having appeared silently like some predatory cat. Apron gone, all bare skin and simmering heat, he pulled me against him.
My already swollen lips tingled as he leaned in. I dodged—which only made his eyes darken.
"Baby..." He glanced at the screen, then stiffened. "That's fake. I can prove—"
"Relax," I deadpanned. "My brother's a hacker. I know Photoshop when I see it."
Dominic exhaled hard, then grinned. "You little menace." His idea of punishment? Let's just say dinner became a very late snack.
Later, as he spoon-fed me soup, Dominic coaxed, "Say it, sweetheart. Call me 'honey.'"
My face burned. Despite everything, the word stuck in my throat. This man—my sister's widower in another life—was now mine, watching me with unbearable tenderness.
The shower turned on. Steeling myself, I whispered to the empty room: "Honey."
The water shut off instantly.
Dominic emerged dripping wet, eyes blazing. I hurled a pillow at him. "Guest room. Now. Or I'm ignoring you forever."
He left grudgingly—only for Sarah to video call moments later. Half-asleep, I accidentally answered.
"Pathetic," she sneered upon seeing my solitary state. "Madison would never lose control of her man like this. Bring Dominic home tomorrow—no excuses."
Click.
I rolled over, tracing the marks Dominic had left. Let them assume I was lonely.
Morning revealed him slumped outside my door like a kicked puppy. "Baby," he whined, "the guest room has mosquitoes. And the bed's too cold. And—"
"Fine," I relented.
Instantly, he produced a thick yellow envelope. Transfer agreements. Sign here, and every asset under his name became mine—pre-marital property.
"Sign," he purred, pen poised. "Or I'll have to... persuade you."
Still sore, I scribbled my name hastily.
That's when the doorbell rang. His parents had arrived.
I froze. In my past life, they'd despised Madison. Now those piercing eyes would judge me.