The Playboy’s Substitute Bride

The Bridal Suite

The guest wing of the Vane Mansion did not feel like a bedroom; it felt like a refrigerated vault. The walls were a stark, clinical white, the floor a vast expanse of polished grey slate that sucked the warmth from Ivy’s bare feet. There were no curtains, only massive panes of glass that looked out over the jagged, moonlit cliffs of the coast.

Mrs. Gable had shoved Ivy into the room and locked the door from the outside with a sharp, final click.

Ivy stood in the center of the room, her breath hitching in the frigid air. Her knees were throbbing, the skin purple and angry from her fall in the foyer. With trembling fingers, she reached for the zipper of the $100,000 lace gown. It was a struggle of nearly twenty minutes—a lonely, desperate battle against silk and bone—until the heavy dress finally pooled at her feet like the skin of a dead snake.

She stood there in nothing but a thin, silk slip, her ribs bruised from the corset, her skin pale and map-marked with the red lines of the dress's interior boning. She looked at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She didn't see a bride. She saw a sacrificial lamb.

Suddenly, the heavy electronic lock on the door chirped.

Ivy scrambled back, her heart a frantic, trapped bird, as the door swung open.

Jaxson Vane stood in the doorway. He had discarded his tuxedo jacket and his waistcoat. His white silk shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with lean, dangerous muscle. He smelled of expensive peated whiskey, cold salt air, and the lingering, floral scent of the woman who had been waiting for him under the portico.

He didn't say a word. He walked into the room, his pace slow and predatory, his eyes scanning Ivy from her messy, golden hair down to her bruised, trembling knees.

"You're shaking, Sienna," he rasped, his voice a low, tectonic rumble that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. "Usually, by this time of night, you’d be demanding a diamond necklace or a trip to Paris to celebrate your 'victory' in marrying me. Why are you standing there like I’m about to strike you?"

"I... I'm just cold, Jaxson," Ivy whispered, her voice a fragile, raspy thread. She tried to pull the silk slip lower, trying to hide the marks on her legs.

Jaxson laughed—a short, jagged sound that contained no humor. He walked toward her, stopping so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. It was a mocking heat, a reminder of the life he was denying her.

He reached out, his hand wrapping around her throat—not to choke her, but to tilt her head back so she was forced to look into the storm-cloud gray of his eyes.

"Don't lie to me," he whispered, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of her jaw. "I know exactly why you're quiet. You're terrified. You think that because we signed those papers, I'm going to fulfill my 'husbandly duties.' You think I’m going to touch you."

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, sending a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through her nervous system.

"Let me make one thing very clear, 'Princess,'" he hissed, his breath hot against her skin. "I didn't marry you because I wanted you. I married you because your father owed me a debt he couldn't pay, and you were the only collateral he had left. To me, you are a plastic doll. A beautiful, empty shell that I have no interest in breaking."

He pulled back, his eyes dark with a mix of boredom and deep-seated loathing.

"I've seen the way you look at yourself in the mirror, Sienna. The vanity, the greed. It makes my stomach turn. I’d rather sleep in the dirt than share a bed with a woman who has a heart made of ice."

Ivy didn't correct him. She couldn't. Every word he threw at her was meant for her sister, but she was the one who had to catch the stones.

"Go to the balcony," Jaxson commanded, pointing toward the massive glass sliding door.

Ivy blinked, her eyes widening. "What?"

"The heater in this wing is broken," Jaxson said, a slow, cruel smirk spreading across his face. "And since you're so fond of 'Sienna’s' dramatic flair, I figured you’d enjoy the view. There’s a lounge chair out there. You can watch the waves. Maybe the cold will help freeze that black heart of yours."

"Jaxson, please... it's nearly freezing outside," Ivy gasped, her voice breaking.

"Do I look like I care?" Jaxson snapped, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy level. "You wanted the Vane name. You wanted the money. This is the price of the crown, Sienna. Now move, or I'll have Gable drag you out there herself."

Ivy looked at him, searching for a single spark of humanity in his gray eyes. She found nothing but the cold, clinical indifference of a man who had bought a toy and found it boring.

She walked toward the balcony. The glass door slid open with a hiss, and the midnight air hit her like a physical blow. The wind off the ocean was brutal, carrying the scent of salt and the roar of the crashing surf below.

She stepped out onto the stone terrace. Behind her, she heard the glass door slide shut.

Click.

The electronic lock engaged.

Ivy stood on the balcony in nothing but her thin silk slip. The wind whipped her hair into a frenzy, and the cold began to seep into her bones instantly. She turned back, pressing her palms against the glass.

Jaxson was standing on the other side. He didn't look at her with pity. He didn't even look at her with anger. He simply picked up a bottle of whiskey from the side table, took a long pull, and walked out of the room, turning off the lights as he went.

Ivy was left in the pitch black, the only light coming from the moon reflecting off the waves. She collapsed onto the hard, wicker lounge chair, curling her body into a ball, trying to catch the fading heat of her own skin.

She looked through the glass into the empty, luxurious room she wasn't allowed to enter, her teeth beginning to chatter. She was the Mayor’s daughter. She was a billionaire’s wife. And she was currently freezing to death in the dark, a substitute for a sister who was probably sleeping in a warm bed, laughing at the ghost she had left behind.