Chapter 2 COFFEE OR DIE

# CHAPTER 2: "COFFEE OR DIE"

Barrett avoided coming home that night. Not that I was surprised—finding your supposedly dead wife sitting in your boardroom would send anyone running for the hills. But I wasn't concerned. According to our newly signed contract, he had to return home eventually.

I spent the evening reacquainting myself with the penthouse I'd once shared with him. Everything was exactly as I remembered it—minimalist, sterile, and cold, much like the man himself. The only difference was that my photos had been removed. How thoughtful of him to mourn me by erasing all evidence of my existence.

When I checked the master bedroom, I found my side of the closet had been cleared out. My clothes, my shoes, my jewelry—all gone. I smiled to myself. Good thing I had access to his credit cards again.

After a quick shopping spree and a much-needed shower, I settled into bed and planned my next move. Barrett Montgomery might be a cold-blooded killer, but he had one weakness—his morning coffee. In my past life, I'd observed his routine with the attentiveness of a scientist studying a rare specimen. Every morning, 5:45 AM, he would make himself a pour-over with single-origin Ethiopian beans, drink it while reading financial news, and be out the door by 6:30.

This time around, I'd be making his coffee.

I set my alarm for 5:00 AM and fell asleep in his bed, wearing his dress shirt—just to annoy him when he eventually came home.

The next morning, I was up before my alarm, buzzing with energy despite the early hour. I had ordered a high-end coffee art machine the night before (rush delivery, his credit card) and it had arrived just after midnight. I spent an hour practicing before I got it just right.

At precisely 5:40 AM, I heard the front door open. Barrett was home, and right on schedule for his morning routine. I listened to his footsteps as he moved through the penthouse, hesitating when he noticed the lights on in the kitchen.

When he appeared in the doorway, he looked terrible—unshaven, dark circles under his eyes, suit rumpled. He'd clearly spent the night at his office. Our eyes locked, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.

"Good morning, husband," I said cheerfully, sliding a mug across the kitchen island toward him. "Coffee?"

He stared at the mug like it might contain poison. Not an unreasonable assumption, given the circumstances.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice rough from lack of sleep.

I smiled sweetly. "Clause Seven, darling. Your good morning kiss."

He approached cautiously and looked down at the coffee. I'd used the machine to create a perfect foam art design: "U＞C4" written in elegant script atop the dark liquid.

"What does that mean?" he asked, brow furrowed.

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"It's a chemical formula," I explained. "Uranium is more important than C4 explosives. Or in simpler terms—you are more important to me than blowing things up. Isn't that romantic?"

His eyes narrowed. "Are you threatening me?"

I laughed. "If I wanted to threaten you, Barrett, I wouldn't waste good coffee to do it. This is me being nice. You might want to get used to it."

He picked up the mug, sniffed it suspiciously, but didn't drink.

"It's not poisoned," I assured him. "That would be too easy. And where's the fun in that?"

After another moment of hesitation, he took a small sip, then a longer one. His eyebrows rose slightly—the closest thing to approval I'd ever seen from him.

"Ethiopian Yirgacheffe," he noted. "My favorite."

"I know," I replied. "I was your wife for three years, Barrett. I paid attention."

Something flickered across his face—confusion, perhaps. Or the uncomfortable realization that he'd never really known me at all. Before he could respond, I walked around the island and stood directly in front of him.

"Now for the second part of Clause Seven," I said, rising onto my tiptoes.

Before he could react, I pressed a quick kiss to his lips. He froze, coffee mug suspended halfway to his mouth, as I pulled away with a smile.

"Have a good day at work, dear," I said, patting his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."

I left him standing in the kitchen, stunned into silence, and locked myself in the guest bedroom. Phase one of Operation Make Barrett Fall in Love With Me was officially underway.

The next morning, I was ready with a new design. When Barrett entered the kitchen—looking marginally better than the day before—I presented him with a coffee featuring a miniature engagement ring design in the foam.

He stared at it for a long moment. "What's this supposed to be?"

"Just a reminder of happier days," I said lightly. "Drink up before it gets cold."

He drank the coffee more readily this time, apparently having survived yesterday's cup without incident. When he reached the bottom of the mug, his expression changed. He tilted the cup, peering inside.

"There's something in here," he said accusingly.

"Oh?" I feigned surprise. "Better fish it out."

Using a spoon, he extracted a tiny platinum ring—a perfect miniature replica of the engagement ring he'd given me three years ago.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded.

"A token of my affection," I replied. "You can wear it on your pinky if you'd like. Or your toe. I'm not picky."

He placed the tiny ring on the counter with a sharp clink. "I don't know what game you're playing—"

"It's not a game, Barrett," I interrupted, suddenly serious. "It's a second chance. For both of us."

Something in my tone must have caught him off guard, because he studied my face with an intensity that made my heart race. For a moment, I saw a flicker of the man I'd fallen in love with—before the power and the money had corrupted him. Before he'd decided I was disposable.

The moment passed, and his expression hardened again. "I have a meeting," he said curtly, and left without accepting his morning kiss.

I simply smiled. Baby steps.

By the end of the week, Barrett had established a new routine. He would come home late, sleep in the guest room, accept his morning coffee with minimal conversation, and leave for work before I could enforce the kiss clause. It was progress of a sort—at least he was drinking my coffee.

On Friday, I decided to escalate. I created a special brew using my most secret ingredient, emblazoning the foam with a simple "B♥D" design. I was just putting the finishing touches on it when Barrett's assistant, James, walked into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Montgomery," he said, clearly uncomfortable. "Mr. Montgomery asked me to pick up some documents he left at home."

"Of course," I said, smiling brightly. "He's in the shower. Coffee while you wait?"

Before he could decline, I pushed the mug into his hands. James, ever the polite corporate soldier, took an obligatory sip.

Three seconds later, he was spitting it into the sink, face contorted in horror.

"What—what is this?" he gasped, wiping his mouth frantically.

"Just a special blend," I said innocently.

James looked at the mug with growing panic. "Is that—is there blood in this coffee?"

The bathroom door opened, and Barrett emerged, dressed impeccably in a charcoal suit. He took in the scene—his assistant bent over the sink, me standing by with a serene smile.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

James straightened, face pale. "Sir, I think your wife put blood in the coffee!"

Barrett's eyes snapped to mine, a dangerous glint in them. "Diana. Explain. Now."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small card, holding it up for both men to see. "Blood donor certificate," I said calmly. "Type O negative, donated yesterday. I had them give me a small vial for... personal use."

Barrett stared at me in disbelief. "You put your own blood in my coffee?"

"Only a drop," I assured him. "It's perfectly safe. And now we're bonded in the most literal sense possible." I beamed at him. "It's legally binding, you know. Blood oaths are recognized in several ancient cultures."

James looked like he might pass out. Barrett, to his credit, maintained his composure, though a muscle ticked in his jaw.

"James," he said evenly, "wait for me in the car."

The assistant didn't need to be told twice. He practically ran from the penthouse, leaving Barrett and me alone.

"What the hell are you trying to do?" he hissed once James was gone.

I stepped closer to him, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. "I'm trying to remind you of what we once had, Barrett. A connection. A bond. Something worth fighting for."

"By putting your blood in my coffee?" He looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I was.

"By showing you I'd give everything for you," I corrected. "Even the blood in my veins. Can you say the same?"

The question hung between us, loaded with meaning. Before he could answer, his phone buzzed. He checked it, jaw tightening.

"We'll discuss this later," he said, moving toward the door.

"Looking forward to it," I called after him.

Twenty minutes after he left, Barrett's head of security arrived at the penthouse. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the stoic expression of a man who had seen too much, Thomas had been with Barrett for years. He'd always been polite to me in my past life, but distant—loyal to his employer above all else.

"Mrs. Montgomery," he said stiffly. "I need to speak with you."

I invited him in, offering coffee that he wisely declined.

"Mr. Montgomery has asked me to inform you that certain... purchases have been made with his credit card that require explanation."

"Oh?" I feigned innocence. "The coffee machine, you mean? Or the blood donation kit?"

Thomas shifted uncomfortably. "No, ma'am. The cemetery plot."

I smiled slowly. "Ah, that."

"Ma'am, may I ask why you purchased a burial plot adjacent to Mr. Montgomery's family mausoleum?"

I leaned forward, dropping my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a double plot, Thomas. For me and Barrett. Side by side for eternity. Isn't that romantic?"

The security chief's face remained impressively blank, but I could see the faint twitch of concern in his eyes.

"Mr. Montgomery would like me to inform you that such purchases are inappropriate and—"

"Tell Barrett," I interrupted, "that I'm simply planning ahead. After all, death parted us once already. I'm just making sure it doesn't happen again."

Thomas looked at me for a long moment, then gave a curt nod. "I'll relay your message."

As he turned to leave, I called after him. "Oh, and Thomas? Tell Barrett I expect him home for dinner tonight. We have a contract, after all."

The security chief paused at the door. "Mrs. Montgomery, if I may speak frankly?"

"Of course."

"Whatever game you're playing with Mr. Montgomery... be careful. He's not a man who likes to lose."

I smiled, thinking of the yacht, the cold water, the darkness. "Neither am I, Thomas. Neither am I."

After he left, I walked to the window overlooking the city Barrett thought he owned. In my past life, I'd been the perfect trophy wife—beautiful, compliant, and ultimately, dispensable. This time would be different. This time, I wasn't just playing to survive.

I was playing to win his heart before he could break mine again.

And if that meant adding a little blood to his coffee... well, that was just the beginning.