My Wife is a Hacker

The icy water crushed against her chest.

Zero's eyes snapped open. Her lungs burned, screaming for oxygen. She broke the surface of the massive bathtub, water cascading down her face as she gasped, her chest heaving violently. The sudden influx of air felt like swallowed glass tearing down her throat.

Before she could even process the cold, a violent spike of pain drove through her temples. It was a physical assault. Memories that did not belong to her-memories of a pathetic, lovesick boy named Zero Vance-slammed into her brain. She gripped the marble edge of the tub, her knuckles turning bone-white as her stomach pitched. Her gaze dropped to the floor tiles. An empty, amber prescription bottle lay discarded next to a spilled glass of water, the label smeared. A pathetic, hesitant attempt at an overdose before she had slipped into the freezing water.

She was Z. The world's most lethal hacker. She had died. Yet here she was, breathing, shivering, trapped in the body of a notorious, wealthy failure.

Zero pushed herself up. The soaked silk shirt clung to her skin, heavy and freezing. As she stood, a sharp, suffocating pressure banded around her ribs. She looked down. Beneath the sheer, wet fabric, a thick chest binder was wrapped tightly around her torso, flattening her breasts.

A girl. The "trashy young master" of the Vance family was a girl hiding in plain sight.

She stepped out of the tub, her bare feet slapping against the pristine white marble, and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror.

Zero stared at the reflection and her stomach physically recoiled. Rainbow-colored hair hung in wet, pathetic clumps. Thick, cheap waterproof eyeliner was smeared across her face in dark, ugly streaks, making her look like a bruised raccoon.

Bile rose in her throat. She turned the silver faucet, plunging her hands into the freezing stream, and scrubbed her face brutally. She rubbed until her skin turned raw and red, washing away the heavy black sludge.

She opened the vanity drawer. Her eyes locked onto a pair of sharp grooming scissors. She grabbed them. The cold metal grounded her.

Zero grabbed a fistful of the heavy, neon hair. She didn't hesitate.

Snip.

A thick chunk of rainbow hair hit the floor. She kept cutting, the metallic sound echoing in the massive bathroom. She sheared it all off until nothing remained but a sharp, jagged crop of silver-blonde hair.

A frantic knock hammered against the bathroom door.

"Young Master!" Reginald, the head butler, shouted, his voice trembling with panic. "Please, don't do anything stupid over Maverick Thorne again!"

Zero ignored the noise. She grabbed a thick towel and roughly dried her new, short hair. She looked in the mirror again. Without the makeup and the ridiculous hair, the face staring back was striking. Androgynous. Lethal. The jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, and her dark eyes held the cold, dead emptiness of a predator.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Reginald stood there, his fist raised to knock again. The words died in his throat. He stared at the wet, silver hair scattered across the floor, and then his eyes met Zero's.

His heart stuttered. The boy standing before him radiated a freezing, suffocating pressure. This wasn't the crying, hysterical teenager he knew.

"A-Are you alright, Young Master?" Reginald stammered, taking a physical step back.

Zero walked right past him, leaving a trail of wet footprints.

"Prepare a clean black suit for me," she ordered. Her voice was low, raspy, and entirely stripped of emotion.

Reginald froze. The absolute authority in that single command pinned his feet to the floor. He could only nod dumbly.