The Girl in the Hoodie is Mine Chapter 167: Childish Ella?

JASON’S POV

Yes, I know she almost said she liked . But I highly doubt that whatever tiny fraction of affection she once had for hadn’t already been spat on, set on fire, and brutally yanked out of her heart by the vengeful version of Ella.

But right now?

Watching her drunkenly struggle with her seat belt, pouting like a frustrated toddler, it was almost cute.

And I couldn’t believe this was the sa woman who had turned my life into a never-ending nightmare the mont I said, "I do."

In her intoxicated state, she almost reminded of the Ella I had fallen for.

Yes, she was still sassy, but the bite behind her words was gone. There was no calculated cruelty, no icy glares, no subtle threats hanging over my head like a guillotine.

Just her.

And I hated that I missed this side of her.

For the last three minutes, she had been wrestling with her seat belt like it was her mortal enemy.

She pulled. She twisted. She even growled at it.

But the seat belt?

Unmoved. Unbothered. Winning this battle effortlessly.

Finally, she let out a dramatic sigh, puffing her cheeks and glaring at like this was my fault.

"It won’t get off," she complained, wiggling in frustration.

I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Ella, it’s just a seat belt."

"It’s a traitor!" she declared, pointing at it like it had personally wronged her. "It refuses to obey !"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Lord, give patience.

"Let help—" I leaned forward, reaching for the buckle.

But before I could even unclip it, I felt her staring at .

Hard.

I glanced up, only to find her looking at intensely.

And then—

She started giggling.

I narrowed my eyes. "What?"

Still giggling, she leaned in as if she was about to tell the world’s biggest secret.

"My husband is very handso," she whispered.

...

I blinked.

Did she—?

Did she just—?

My brain short-circuited for a solid five seconds.

Then, finally, I managed to unbuckle the seat belt and sit back, sighing dramatically.

Did I say drunk Ella was tiring?

I take it back.

I would choose drunk Ella every ti—provided there was no one around for her to accidentally tell about the contract or the bet.

Because, drunk or not, I was not ready to die yet.

I knew I was in trouble the mont she got out of the car.

And not in the usual "Ella is plotting my demise" kind of trouble.

Nope.

This was new.

This was worse.

This was drunken, spoiled, rich heiress Ella in all her bratty glory.

The sa woman who had been emotionally tornting since the day I said "I do" had just called handso—which, yes, made grin like a teenager in love, despite knowing full well she was still the sa woman hell-bent on ruining my life.

But drunk Ella?

Drunk Ella was an entirely different species.

So, forgetting for a brief mont that my wife was usually a vengeful ice queen, I foolishly took my ti getting out of the car, intending to finally grant her earlier request and carry her inside like a princess.

Except—

Too late.

By the ti I stepped out, she was already stumbling forward in her drunken state.

And before I could reach her—

She fell.

Flat. On the pavent.

I winced.

And then—

She looked up at with big, glassy, teary eyes... and started crying.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

"You—" she sniffled, glaring at through her actual tears. "You didn’t carry ! You’re not a good husband! I’m going to tell on you!"

...

I just stood there.

Processing.

Trying to comprehend what was happening.

When had Ella beco a crybaby?

Don’t ask .

I don’t know.

But apparently, making her drunk was the secret recipe for unlocking the hidden bratty, spoiled princess mode that I had never seen before.

I ran a hand through my hair, ntally preparing myself for the absolute chaos that was about to unfold.

"Ella," I started, crouching down beside her. "You don’t have to tell on ."

"Yes, I do!" she sniffled dramatically. "You let fall! And now I’m— I’m hurt!"

Good Lord.

She was talking like she had been hit by a car.

I exhaled deeply, keeping my voice gentle. "Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Really sorry. Now, let’s get you inside, yeah?"

She huffed. "You should have carried in the first place!"

And because arguing with drunk Ella was a battle I was dood to lose, I did what I should have done earlier.

I scooped her up in my arms.

Imdiately, she wrapped her arms around my neck, snuggling into as if she wasn’t the sa woman who had been tornting for weeks.

As I carried her through the house, I knew if people saw us right now they would gushed.

"Oh, how romantic!"

"Look at how he takes care of her!"

"They’re such a perfect couple."

If only they knew.

If only they knew that the only reason I was carrying her like this was to prevent her from announcing to the world that our marriage was a contract and that I had made her a bet.

If only they knew that the "loving wife" in my arms was actually a vengeful demoness plotting my downfall.

If only they knew that I was practically apologizing every two seconds just to keep her from crying again.

Finally, we reached our supposed room—yes, our room, the master bedroom that I had never set foot in before tonight.

As I stepped inside, I took a brief second to admire it.

I had to admit—my father had gone all out furnishing this place, clearly wanting to impress the Kingsleys.

Too bad it was all for show.

Because despite being married, my dear wife had made it very clear that I was not allowed to set foot in this room before tonight.

And even now?

I was only here because she was too drunk to fight off.

THE INJURY & MORE COMPLAINTS

I sat her down on the bed, only to notice her flinching slightly as she moved her hand.

I frowned.

"Ella," I said slowly, reaching for her hand. "Did you hurt yourself?"

She sniffled dramatically. "I fell because you didn’t carry ."

Ah.

Of course.

Everything was my fault.

I sighed, examining her hand. Sure enough, she had scraped it on the pavent.

A tiny scrape.

But if you asked her?

She had suffered a great tragedy.

I looked around the room for a first aid kit, finding one in the bathroom.

As I applied antiseptic to the wound, she whined, sniffing loudly.

"If you had carried in the first place," she mumbled, "I wouldn’t have fallen."

I sighed. "I know. I’m sorry."

She narrowed her eyes. "Say it again."

"...I’m sorry."

"Louder."

I clenched my jaw. "I’M SORRY."

Satisfied, she huffed, crossing her arms.

I wrapped the bandage around her hand, silently questioning every life decision that had led to this mont.

WHEN HAD MY LIFE BECO THIS?

When had apologizing for things I didn’t even do beco normal?

When had dealing with a drunk, spoiled, rich heiress beco a part of my daily survival tactics?

And most importantly—

When had I fallen so hopelessly in love with a woman who was set on ruining ?

Because despite everything—

Despite the petty revenge.

Despite the icy treatnt.

Despite the never-ending tornt.

I was still madly in love with her.

Even as she sat there pouting, complaining about how I was a bad husband, I knew—

I was dood.

******

I exhaled deeply, running a hand through my hair as I finished bandaging her arm.

This night had tested in ways I never thought possible.

I had coaxed a crying Ella.

I had carried a whining, spoiled, drunk heiress inside.

I had apologized more tis than I could count.

And now?

Now I was faced with a new challenge—one that might actually end .

Ella was still pouting, arms crossed as she sat on the bed, her dress slightly crumpled from all her stumbling and dramatics.

She looked down at herself and frowned.

"I can’t sleep in this," she declared, tugging at the fabric. "It’s uncomfortable."

I sighed. Of course.

"Okay," I muttered, already standing up and heading toward the closet. "I’ll get you sothing to change into."

I opened the closet, expecting to find normal sleepwear.

Sothing decent.

Sothing safe.

Instead—

I was t with an entire collection of lacy, silky, barely-there nightgowns that scread temptation and disaster.

I stared.

Then blinked.

Then stared again.

Jesus Christ.

This—this was a trap.

An elaborate trap set by fate itself to make suffer.

Because if I picked one of these skimpy, see-through things, I was a dead man either way.

Option 1: She wakes up sober tomorrow, realizes I dressed her in sothing provocative, and murders on the spot.

Option 2: I physically help her put on one of these, and in my current state—yeah, no. I wouldn’t survive the night.

There was only one way to make it out of this alive.

I grabbed one of my oversized T-shirts.

It was simple.

Safe.

And most importantly—it wouldn’t kill .

I returned to her and handed it over.

"Here," I said, trying to sound casual. "Wear this."

Ella blinked at the T-shirt, then up at .

She pouted.

"This is yours," she mumbled.

"Yes, and?"

She held it up, inspecting it as if I had given her a trash bag instead of a perfectly comfortable shirt.

"It’s not...cute," she said, lips pursing in disapproval.

"Ella," I sighed, patiently rubbing my temples. "Just put it on."

With an exaggerated huff, she snatched it from my hands.

"Fine," she grumbled.

And then—

She started undressing.

WHAT. THE. HELL.

I imdiately whipped around so fast I nearly got whiplash.

Oh, nope, nope, nope!

I was not looking.

Not tonight.

Not ever.

Nope.

Not when my wife—who already hated sober—was currently drunk, half-undressed, and very, very unpredictable.

"Jason."

Her voice pulled from my frantic inner panic.

I took a slow breath, still facing away.

"...Are you done?" I asked cautiously.

"No."

I clenched my jaw. "Then what’s wrong?"

"My zip won’t budge."

I inhaled.

Exhaled.

Tried to ntally prepare myself for what I was about to do.

Then, slowly, I turned back around.

Ella was struggling with the zipper on the back of her dress, arms twisting awkwardly as she tried to pull it down herself.

I swallowed hard.

This is fine. This is just helping.

Just unzip the dress and turn back around.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

"Okay," I muttered, stepping behind her. "Hold still."

My fingers brushed against her bare back, and I felt every muscle in my body tense.

Because of course, of course, the dress had an open-back design, leaving an absurd amount of skin exposed.

Freaking rich people and their impractical clothes.

Focusing on survival, I yanked the zipper down quickly—maybe a little too quickly—then imdiately turned back around before my mind could wander to dangerous places.

"There. Done," I announced, staring at the very safe wall in front of .

She giggled behind .

"My husband is so helpful," she teased, her voice dripping with amusent.

I groaned internally.

This was going to be a long night.