Chapter 2: Stones and Slaps

Thanks to Dolly, Marcus was bed-bound for ten days. The doctors called it a "severe spiritual disruption to his gubernatorial chakras"—translation: Dolly wrecked both his ankle and his pride.

The staff loved to brag about Marcus’s past—lacrosse trophies, Yale rowing, black belts, you name it. Now, he was doing push-ups in bed and failing. It was sad, really.

Emma, my ever-diplomatic assistant, nudged me. "That is, after all, your future husband," she said, arranging white roses—funeral or wedding, take your pick.

Honestly, my life plan was ruined by international politics. I could’ve had a whole parade of husbands (not at once, I’m not that cursed). The Southern State estate was like a revolving door—today, the athlete’s room, tomorrow, the scholar’s. It was like a weird, exclusive Airbnb.

But thanks to Marcus, I was stuck with one—potentially lethal—husband.

"If only the Northern State’s governor were a woman," I groaned, collapsing onto the settee.

Emma quickly clapped a hand over my mouth, lavender hand cream and all. "Miss, watch your words—walls have ears!" She glanced at the chandelier, eyes narrowed.

Speak of the devil. Marcus entered, no knock, limping but refusing help, cane topped with a silver wolf, the state mascot, gleaming like a trophy.

I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

"So, Madison, does it ruin your day I’m not a woman?" He dropped into the chair across from me, not even wincing.

I gave a lazy curtsy and sat. "Not disappointed—you’re a good-looking guy, after all." Even battered, he could be a GQ cover model.

He stared, then let out a sharp, angry laugh. "Shallow. You haven’t changed in ten years."

"Ten years?" I shot upright, heart racing.

"I was an exchange student down south. Met you several times." He pulled out his phone, scrolling.

Oh God. My slapping days. I was the Regina George of the diplomatic circuit, handing out slaps like Halloween candy. I slapped so many exchange students—was he the tall one I hit for correcting my Latin, the chess prodigy, or the kid who made fun of my tiara?

"You really don’t remember me," Marcus sneered. "How very like you."

"Your state sent new kids every year—how could I remember?" I muttered. I slapped so many, I could’ve kept a punch card.

"When did you visit Southern State?"

"Thirteen years ago." His tone was pure menace.

I was eleven then. Peak slapping era.

I managed a weak laugh. "Small world."

He pulled out a stone pendant on a red cord—my old "promise stone"—and slid it across the table.

"Remember this?"

I lied with all the confidence of a politician’s kid. "Of course."

I used to give out these stones to every cute guy. Thirty, forty—who’s counting? I picked it up; it was warm, clearly worn close. For a second, I almost felt bad.

Marcus poured out a pouch of stones. "The Northern State sent seven exchange students—here are seven stones. Derek, Nathan, Lucas, Tyler, Brandon, Noah…"

He’d collected them all. My romantic IOUs, lined up like evidence.

"You gave tokens to a lot of people, didn’t you?" The room dropped ten degrees. Emma vanished—smart woman.