Verified By The Viper

I am an apex predator. I am four feet of muscle and patience, the terror of the fourth-floor Pomeranian, the shadow the cleaning woman will not vacuum near. My name is — and I ask you not to laugh — Sir Noodle.

I have one human, Alexia, and she is about to make the gravest error of her small warm life.

She has hired Manhattan's most exclusive matchmaking house to find her a husband, and their entire promise is a single word: verified. Background checked. Finances confirmed. References run to ground. A signed guarantee that the charming man she is about to marry is exactly who he says he is.

He is not. I knew it the moment he crossed my range, because I do not read paper — I read pulse, and his heartbeat lies to every human in the room but me. The house verified a costume. I can taste the animal underneath it, and the animal is a con.

There is no mechanism on earth by which a snake's testimony may be entered into evidence. Fortunately, I do not testify. An apex predator does not warn a rival out of his territory.

He removes him.

The wedding is Thursday. The lid on my tank has never once been seated correctly. And a con man's entire operation runs on a schedule — which is an unfortunate thing to bet your life on, when there is a four-foot apocalypse loose in the walls who does not recognize the days of the week.

Verified By The Viper is a laugh-out-loud, closed-door billionaire romantic comedy narrated entirely by the most self-important, least sentimental, most magnificent snake in Manhattan. Completely standalone. Guaranteed happily-ever-after. One con man, thoroughly outclassed.

I require, now, a mouse.