THE DEAD MAN'S WIFE

The first time Mara Vale saw her future husband, he was already dead. At least, that was what the letter claimed. The envelope arrived on a rainy Thursday morning, three days after Mara buried the last person in the world who had ever loved her. Her grandmother's funeral had been small. Too small, considering the woman had spent eighty-seven years collecting friends, enemies, secrets, and enough expensive jewelry to make a museum jealous. Yet only six people had attended the burial. Mara had counted them. Five strangers in black. And one man standing beneath a broken umbrella across the road, watching the coffin disappear into the earth. When she turned to look at him again, he was gone. Now, sitting alone in her grandmother's cramped apartment, Mara stared at the envelope resting on her knees. Her name was written across the front in elegant black ink. Miss Mara Vale. No return address. No postage stamp. And beneath her name, in handwriting she recognized from the letters her grandmother had kept locked in a drawer, were seven words that made her stomach tighten. Your inheritance comes with a husband. Mara let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "Of course it does." She had exactly four hundred and thirty-two pounds in her bank account, a landlord threatening to change the locks, and a phone full of unanswered messages from the hospital that had treated her grandmother during her final week. A husband was the least of her problems. Still, curiosity won. She tore open the envelope. Inside lay a single sheet of cream-colored paper, a small brass key, and a photograph of an enormous mansion surrounded by dead trees. The letter read: Dear Miss Vale, Following the death of Mrs. Evelyn Vale, you have been named the sole beneficiary of Blackthorn Manor and its entire estate. Your inheritance is subject to one condition. You must take residence at Blackthorn Manor within seven days of receiving this letter and fulfill the marriage agreement established by your grandmother. Failure to comply will result in the forfeiture of the estate. The gentleman awaiting you has already consented to the arrangement. Yours faithfully, Edmund Graves Solicitor to the Ashford Estate. Mara read it once. Then twice. On the third reading, she stopped at one particular sentence. The gentleman awaiting you has already consented to the arrangement. "What gentleman?" She turned the letter over. Nothing. She examined the photograph. Blackthorn Manor looked less like a home and more like a place where people went to disappear. Its tall windows reflected a colorless sky, and ivy crawled across its stone walls like dark veins. On the back, someone had written a name. Lucien Ashford. The moment Mara read it, an unexpected chill travelled down her spine. She knew that name. Not from a person she had met, but from the stories her grandmother used to tell when Mara was little. There had been an Ashford family, she remembered. Wealthy, powerful, and supposedly cursed. Her grandmother would lower her voice whenever she spoke about them, insisting that children who asked too many questions about Blackthorn Manor would hear footsteps outside their bedroom doors. Mara had always assumed it was an attempt to frighten her into behaving. Now she wasn't so sure. She reached for her phone and searched the name. The first result was an old newspaper article. LUCIEN ASHFORD, HEIR TO BLACKTHORN ESTATE, DIES AT TWENTY-NINE. Mara stared at the screen. The article was dated October 19, 1924. A century ago. She opened another result, then another. Every account told the same story. Lucien Ashford, the only son of an influential family, had died under mysterious circumstances shortly before his wedding. His fiancée had vanished the following morning. His body had never been publicly displayed. And after his death, Blackthorn Manor had been sealed. Mara lowered her phone. "No," she whispered. She looked at the photograph again. Then at the brass key. Then back at the letter. Someone was playing a cruel joke on her. That had to be it. But when she called the solicitor's number printed at the bottom of the page, a man answered before the first ring had finished. "Miss Vale," he said. His voice was low and precise, as though he had been expecting her call. "Who are you, and why have you sent me this ridiculous letter?" "Mr. Graves. I am the solicitor responsible for your grandmother's estate." "You're telling me I've inherited a mansion from a dead family, and the price is marrying a man who died a hundred years ago?" "I understand how unusual the arrangement may appear." "Unusual?" Mara laughed without humor. "Are you insane?" "No, Miss Vale. But I would advise you to take the agreement seriously." "Why?" "Because your grandmother did." The words struck harder than Mara expected. She sat straighter. "What does my grandmother have to do with Lucien Ashford?" "I am not authorized to discuss the history of the agreement over the telephone." "Then tell me this. Is Lucien Ashford alive?" Another silence. Longer this time. "Mr. Ashford is awaiting your arrival." The line went dead. Mara remained still, holding the phone against her ear. For several seconds, she heard nothing except the rain tapping against the window. Then her phone vibrated. An unknown number. One message. Do not come to Blackthorn Manor. Mara's fingers tightened around the device. A second message appeared. If you have already accepted the inheritance, destroy the key. Then a third. And whatever you do, do not let Lucien see your face. Before she could respond, the messages disappeared. Not deleted one by one. They vanished from the screen all at once, leaving no trace that they had ever existed. Mara stared at her phone until the display went dark. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. And she had just inherited it. --- Blackthorn Manor stood at the end of a road that seemed determined to keep the world away. Mara arrived two days later. She told herself she was going only to inspect the property. She would meet the solicitor, review the documents, and refuse whatever ridiculous marriage arrangement someone had invented. Then she would sell the mansion, pay her debts, and return to her ordinary life. Simple. Reasonable. Completely sensible. At least, that was what she repeated to herself as the taxi disappeared behind the iron gates. The manor rose before her beneath a bruised evening sky. Its towers pierced the clouds. Its windows were narrow and dark, and the stone angels lining the entrance had faces so weathered they looked as though they had been crying for centuries. Mara pulled her coat tighter. "Lovely place," she muttered. "Very welcoming." The front door opened before she could knock. An elderly woman stood in the doorway. She wore a long black dress, white gloves, and an expression of profound disappointment. "Miss Vale," she said. Mara glanced behind herself. "I'm sorry. Are you expecting someone else?" "No." The woman stepped aside. "Then why do you look as though you've seen a ghost?" The elderly woman's eyes moved to the brass key in Mara's hand. For the first time, her expression changed. Fear. Pure, unmistakable fear. "Where did you get that?" "My grandmother's solicitor." The woman closed her eyes briefly. "Oh, dear God." Mara's uneasiness deepened. "Would you mind telling me what's going on?" "My name is Mrs. Whitmore. I have served this household for forty-one years." She looked toward the staircase behind her. "And I have spent every one of those years praying that no one would ever bring that key back." "Why?" Mrs. Whitmore opened her mouth. A bell rang somewhere inside the manor. One clear, metallic note. The elderly woman's face drained of color. She grabbed Mara's wrist. "Listen carefully. Whatever you hear tonight, do not follow it. Whatever you see, do not touch it. And if a man calls your name after midnight—" She stopped. Footsteps sounded on the upper floor. Slow. Measured. Descending the staircase. Mrs. Whitmore released Mara immediately and bowed her head. "Welcome home, Miss Vale." Mara turned. A man stood at the top of the stairs. He was tall, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, with dark hair falling slightly across his forehead. His face was strikingly beautiful, but there was something unsettling about his stillness. He looked no older than thirty. His eyes were the color of winter storms. And he was staring directly at Mara. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then he descended the staircase. One step. Two. Three. Mara could hear her own heartbeat. When he finally reached the bottom, he stopped less than a metre away. "You're late," he said. His voice was deep, smooth, and cold enough to make the hairs on her arms rise. Mara forced herself to lift her chin. "And you must be the dead man." Something flickered in his eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or anger. "Is that what they've told you?" "It's what the newspapers say." "Newspapers," he repeated, as though the word entertained him. "How fascinating. Tell me, Miss Vale, do you believe everything you read?" "No. But I generally believe that people who died in 1924 aren't standing in front of me." He studied her face. For the first time, his expression softened. Not with kindness. With recognition. A strange, painful recognition that made Mara feel as though he could see something hidden beneath her skin. Then he reached for her hand. She tried to pull away, but his fingers closed gently around hers. The brass key grew warm in her palm. Lucien's eyes dropped to it. And every trace of amusement disappeared from his face. "Where did you get this?" "My grandmother left it to me." His grip tightened. "Evelyn is dead?" The question was so unexpected that Mara forgot to be afraid. "Yes. She died last week." Lucien released her hand as if he had been burned. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he looked toward the ceiling. "No," he whispered. The single word carried a grief so raw that Mara almost reached for him. Almost. He turned back to her. "Tell me exactly what she said before she died." "She didn't say anything about you." "Impossible." "She was unconscious in the hospital." His jaw tightened. "Then she failed." "Failed at what?" He looked at her for a long moment. Then, with the calm of a man discussing the weather, he said, "At keeping you away from me." A cold silence settled over the entrance hall. Mara took a step backward. "I think there's been a mistake." "There has been no mistake." "I am not marrying you." Lucien's expression became unreadable. "You haven't seen the agreement." "I don't need to see it." "You should." He turned and gestured toward a long corridor. "Come with me." "No." His eyes returned to hers. For one strange second, the entire manor seemed to hold its breath. Then he smiled. It was a beautiful smile. And somehow, it was the most frightening thing Mara had seen all evening. "You have your grandmother's stubbornness," he said. "That will make this more difficult than it needs to be." "Good. I enjoy being difficult." "I suspect you will." He began walking. Mara remained where she was. Then the bell rang again. This time, it sounded from directly above her head. Lucien stopped. His smile vanished. "Did you hear that?" Mara whispered. "Yes." "What is it?" He turned slowly. For the first time since she had arrived, he looked genuinely afraid. "The manor," he said, "has recognized its new mistress." A loud crash erupted from the corridor. Mara spun around. At the far end of the hall hung an enormous portrait of a woman in a white wedding dress. The canvas trembled inside its frame. A thin c***k appeared across the painted woman's face. Then the portrait fell. Glass shattered against the marble floor. Mara rushed forward before Lucien could stop her. The painting lay faceup among the broken glass. The woman in the portrait had Mara's eyes. Her nose. Her mouth. Even the small crescent-shaped scar above her left eyebrow. It was Mara's face. Except the woman in the painting wore a wedding dress, and her skin was pale as death. Beneath the portrait, someone had scratched a message into the wooden frame. THE FIRST BRIDE WAS NEVER BURIED. Mara felt the blood drain from her face. Behind her, Lucien spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. "Now you understand why you should never have come here." She turned to him. "Who is that woman?" He looked at the portrait. Then at Mara. And when he answered, the words changed everything. "My wife." Mara's heart stopped. "But you're supposed to marry me." Lucien's eyes locked onto hers. "No, Mara." He stepped closer. "I'm supposed to find out why you look exactly like the woman who murdered me." End of Chapter 1