The Ruthless Billionaire's Bride

The first thing I feel is cold. Not winter cold. Deeper, as if it has been living in my bones for years. I open my eyes and the light stabs through them. Something beeps beside me, steady and mechanical. Alive. The machine says I'm alive. "Ms. Marchetti? Can you hear me?" A nurse leans over me, clipboard pressed to her chest like a shield. Her voice is gentle, but too careful. "Where am I?" My throat is full of gravel. "St. Brennan's Hospital. You were in an accident. The Reedmore Bridge." The words land and nothing follows. Where the memory should be, there's a black hole with jagged edges. Rain. Headlights. My hands gripping something... My fingers start to shake. My body knows something my mind doesn't, and that terrifies me more than the pain. "Lucian." The name tears out of me. "Where's Lucian?" The nurse flinches. It's small, but I see it. "My husband. Lucian Draven." I push myself up and pain shoots through my ribs. "Call him. He'll be out of his mind." "Ms. Marchetti, lie back down." "Call him." She looks at the door. She doesn't reach for a phone. "I'll get the doctor." She leaves almost at a run. My heart slams against my bruised ribs. He would come. He would come. He would come. Lucian has never made me wait. When I had the flu, he canceled a merger meeting to sit by my bed. When my mother died, he held me for six hours without a word. If I'm in a hospital, he's already in the building, tearing it apart. So why is the door still closed? A cold thread of dread winds through my stomach. I tell myself there are a hundred reasons. I can't believe a single one. The door opens. The man who enters is gray-haired and tired, his white coat creased from long nights. He doesn't smile. He pulls a chair close, and my mouth goes dry. "Ms. Marchetti, I'm Dr. Hale. How much do you remember?" "The bridge. Rain. Not much else. I need a phone. Please." "I can't do that." He rubs his forehead. "I can't contact Mr. Draven. And I strongly advise you not to try." The room tilts. My knuckles ache from clutching the blanket. "Why? Is he hurt? Was he in the car?" "No. You were found alone, thrown clear of the wreckage. No ID, no phone." He meets my eyes. "I knew you the moment I saw you. I treated your mother years ago. You have her eyes." "Then call my husband." "I checked the city records first. Twice. Then I called a friend at the coroner's office." He hesitates, like a man at the edge of a cliff. "According to every official record, Isolde Marchetti died the night of the collision." I laugh, one short, broken burst. It's absurd. I'm sitting right here. But the laugh dies, because he isn't laughing. "That's a mistake," I whisper. "I thought so too. But there's a signed death certificate. And a body was identified at the morgue." "Whose body?" "Yours." The monitor starts to shriek. It's my heart. I can't get air past the terror clawing up my chest. "Who identified it?" His silence is the answer I don't want. "Who, Doctor?" My voice breaks into something small and childlike. "Please." "I can't say. Not yet." He stands, glancing at the door. "Right now, the only people who know you're alive are in this room. Keep it that way. Someone wanted you dead badly enough to make it official. Do you think they'll be happy you survived?" The cold floods back, and with it a fear so total I can't feel my hands. Lucian. No. He promised me, in a candlelit kitchen eight months ago, forehead against mine. Nothing will ever touch you while I'm alive. Then why does a small, cruel voice ask: "And what did he promise after?" "Rest," Dr. Hale says. "Don't speak to anyone." The lock clicks behind him. I'm locked in. Suddenly I'm gasping, tearing at the blanket, eyes darting to the window, the vents, the shadows. Every footstep in the hallway is coming for me. Breathe. Think. I hunt for any memory of that night. A face. A voice. A reason. Nothing. Whoever did this is out there, and I can't even remember their name. The door opens again. I flinch so hard my ribs scream. It's the nurse, pale and rattled, pushing a cart. She won't look at me. Her hands tremble on the IV line. "I'm so sorry," she whispers. "For what?" My voice is barely air. "What did they tell you to do?" She shakes her head, eyes wet, and hurries out. In her rush, she knocks the remote off the cart. It clatters against the wall, and the television above my bed flickers to life. A news anchor in black. A solemn voice. "...the city mourns as final preparations are made for the funeral of Isolde Marchetti, wife of billionaire Lucian Draven, who lost her life in the Reedmore Bridge collision..." White lilies. A church. A closed casket draped in roses. My casket. The camera finds a man in the front pew. Dark suit. One hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking with grief so raw it could break him. Lucian. He's crying. I should feel relief. I should scream his name at the screen. Instead, my skin turns to ice. Either my husband is the most heartbroken man alive... The camera pulls back. Beside him, a slim hand rests on his arm, and on her finger is my mother's emerald, the ring I locked in my jewelry box. ...or the greatest liar I've ever loved. And I'm the only one who knows I'm still breathing.