CHAPTER 3
1046 Words
"Seraphina."
The name just hung there in the back of the limo.
I didn't turn my head. I stared at the black partition separating us from the driver. "I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm Isabella. Did you drink too much at the reception?"
Killian didn't answer.
The limo pulled into a brightly lit underground garage and stopped. The driver opened my door. I gathered the massive layers of lace and climbed out. We walked to a private elevator in total silence. The steel doors slid shut, locking us in.
"You're making a mistake," I said, watching the floor numbers climb.
"I don't make mistakes."
"You just dragged a sick woman out of her own wedding."
"You aren't sick. And you aren't Isabella."
The elevator chimed. The doors opened directly into his penthouse.
I stepped out and froze. It didn't look like a place where a human being lived. It was all floor-to-ceiling glass, stark white walls, and black marble floors. There were no photos. No art. No rugs. It was cold, sterile, and entirely empty. It felt exactly like a high-tech prison. I could even see the little red lights of security cameras tucked into the ceiling corners.
I hiked up my heavy skirt. "Where is the guest room? I'm going to sleep."
"Stop right there." Killian walked past me to a sleek kitchen island and poured a drink. "There is no headache. And there is no Isabella. Not in my house."
"Look at the marriage license," I shot back, forcing my voice into Isabella's trademark high, breathy pitch. "I'm your wife. You're being paranoid."
Killian set his glass down. He crossed the room before I could even take a breath and backed me right into the floor-to-ceiling window. He grabbed my left hand.
"What are you doing? Let go!"
He flipped my hand over and rubbed his thumb hard over my fingertips.
"Calluses," he said flatly.
I yanked my arm. He held on tight.
"Isabella spends three hundred dollars a week on manicures," Killian said, his eyes locking onto mine. "Her hands are soft. She doesn't have a single rough edge on her body. But you have thick calluses on the tips of your left fingers."
I swallowed hard. "I took up a hobby."
"What hobby gives you calluses exclusively on the fingertips of your left hand, Seraphina?"
"Gardening," I lied.
"With one hand?"
"Rock climbing."
"In between managing your father's accounting department from the basement?"
He let out a harsh laugh. "You play the cello. Four hours a day since you were seven years old. It builds thick skin on the strings."
I stopped struggling. The lie was dead.
"Let me go," I said. I dropped the high pitch. I used my real, flat voice.
He dropped my hand and stepped back. A smug look crossed his face. "There she is."
"If you knew," I snapped, stepping forward. "If you knew the second I walked down that aisle, why didn't you stop the wedding? Why did you stand there and say 'I do'?"
"A Vane is never left at the altar. It tanks the stock price."
"So you married a total stranger for PR?"
"I married you because Arthur owes me twenty million dollars. I always collect what I'm owed."
"Where is she? Where is my sister?"
"I don't know, and I don't care," Killian said, walking back to his drink. "But I know exactly why she ran."
"Because she's selfish."
"Because she was terrified." Killian took a sip of his drink. "Isabella isn't completely stupid. She dug into my past. She found out what happens to people who cross me. She realized this wasn't a fairy tale—it was a hostile takeover. She broke under the pressure and bolted."
"So you admit you're a monster," I said. "Good to know my sister has basic survival instincts."
"She survived. You didn't." He pointed his glass at me. "Your father threw you to the wolves to save his own skin."
"I did it to save my family!"
"You did it because you're used to being their doormat."
"I am not a doormat!"
"Then why are you wearing her dress?" he shot back. "That ends tonight."
"I want an annulment."
"Denied."
"It's fraud! I'll go to the police myself. I'll tell them the marriage is invalid!"
"Go ahead," he said smoothly. "Tell them you willingly participated in a scheme to defraud a major corporation out of twenty million dollars. You'll be sharing a cell block with Arthur."
I glared at him, my chest heaving. "You can't do this."
"I can do whatever I want. Here are your options, Seraphina. Option one: You walk out that door right now. If you do, I call my lawyers. I declare fraud. I call in the twenty-million-dollar debt immediately. Your father will be bankrupt by sunrise, and facing federal prison for wire fraud by noon. I will completely ruin him tonight."
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The room was dead silent. He wasn't bluffing. I could see it in his eyes. He would crush my father without a second thought.
"And option two?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You stay."
"I just play your fake wife?"
"You play my very real wife. For the cameras, for the corporate board, for high society. You attend the galas. You smile. You live in this penthouse. You keep the secret, and I keep your father out of a jail cell."
"For how long?"
"Until I decide the debt is paid."
"That's blackmail."
"That's business."
"I won't be your prisoner."
"You already are."
He opened a drawer in the kitchen island, pulled out a thick file, and threw it onto the black marble counter. It hit with a loud smack.
"What is that?" I asked.
"A postnuptial agreement," Killian said. He held out a heavy silver pen. "Sign it."
I didn't move.
"Sign it," he repeated.
"I'm not signing anything I haven't read."
Killian stepped around the island, crowding me right up against the edge of the counter. He slapped his hand down flat on the papers, trapping me.
"You don't have a choice."
"You don't own me, Killian."
He leaned in close.
"You're my bride now," he whispered.
"And in this house, I own everything including you."
- Writer
