Forced to marry my husband's killer

Chapter Eight

Victor sat in his study, his fingers drumming rhythmically on the desk, his eyes distant as he stared into the fire crackling in the hearth. He could still see Elena’s face, the stubborn set of her jaw, the defiance in her eyes. He couldn’t understand her. She was a puzzle—one he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve but couldn’t stop thinking about.

She was not traditionally beautiful—at least, not in the way the society women he was used to flaunted their looks. Her features were softer, her beauty understated. Her hair, a rich chestnut, fell in gentle waves around her face, and her eyes—dark and intense—seemed to see right through him, to a place he wasn’t sure he wanted her to look. She was not the sort of woman who would turn heads at a ball, but there was something about her that made it hard for him to look away.

This marriage had been his calculated move, a way to settle a long-standing score. Daniel, her late husband, had been a thorn in his side for years—a smooth-talking charlatan with a penchant for deception. Victor had seen through him from the start, recognized the empty promises and shady dealings. But Daniel had always managed to wriggle free, slipping through the cracks like a snake. Until that contract.

Victor’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he thought of the contract. It was poetic justice, in a way. Daniel had signed his life away, believing he was too clever to be caught. But when the end came, and his schemes unraveled, the contract had been his undoing. And Elena… she was the collateral damage.

He wondered how much Elena had known about her husband’s affairs. Did she know about Daniel’s extramarital escapades, his string of mistresses scattered across the city? Did she know about his underhanded business dealings, the clients he had swindled, the debts he had accumulated? Or was she as naive as she seemed, the innocent wife blindsided by her husband’s death and his betrayal?

Victor’s gaze shifted to the door that led to their shared bedroom, though he had no intention of joining her there tonight. She looked the part of the grieving widow, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she was just playing a role. Was she a victim, or was she simply pretending to be one, hiding behind a facade of innocence?

He took a slow sip of his brandy, the burn of the alcohol doing little to dull his thoughts. He had been forced to take this route—to claim Elena as payment for Daniel’s debts—not because he needed the money but because he wanted to see if Daniel’s wife was anything like him. If she was as conniving, as deceptive, as the man she had married.

But she wasn’t what he had expected. She was bold, unafraid to speak her mind. She had stood up to him tonight, questioned him in a way that no one had dared to in years. She had a fire in her, a strength that he found… disconcerting. Did she know the truth about Daniel? Or was she still under the illusion that he had been a good man?

Victor leaned back in his chair, his thoughts swirling. He had wanted to hate her, to see her as an extension of Daniel’s deceit. But she was proving to be something else entirely. She was neither weak nor easily intimidated. She had a will of her own, and it was becoming increasingly clear that she wasn’t going to bow to him or his family’s judgment.

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He needed to keep his focus, to remember why he had married her in the first place. She was part of a plan, a means to an end. But every time he looked at her, every time she challenged him, he felt his resolve waver.

What did she know? What secrets did she keep? He was determined to find out. And if she was pretending—if this was all an act—then he would uncover the truth. One way or another, he would know who Elena truly was.