Married to the Tyrant in a Wheelchair

The cold, damp concrete of the San Pedro Port offered no comfort.

Augustina Osborne floated inches above the ground. She stared down at her own mangled body.

Her flesh was torn, her limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Blood pooled around her head, mixing with the heavy Los Angeles rain.

She reached out to touch her own cheek. The icy raindrops passed right through her translucent palm.

A polished Italian leather shoe stepped into her line of sight.

Jaret Beach, a Wall Street investment banker and the man she once thought loved her, kicked her lifeless arm out of his way. His face twisted in disgust.

"Look at this mess," Jaret complained, his voice barely carrying over the sound of the crashing waves. "She got blood on my custom oxfords."

A few feet away, Kayleigh Hogan leaned against a rusted shipping container.

She pulled a slim cigarette from a gold case and lit it. The flame illuminated her perfectly manicured face.

Kayleigh exhaled a plume of gray smoke into the rain. "I can't believe she was naive enough to think the family trust actually belonged to her. A rat from The Warrens, dreaming of Bel Air."

Jaret stepped over Augustina's corpse. He wrapped his arm around Kayleigh's waist.

They shared a deep, celebratory kiss right above her dead body.

Augustina's soul felt no shock. No surprise. Just the cold, satisfying click of the first puzzle piece falling into place. Everything was happening exactly as she remembered. And exactly as she had planned for.

Suddenly, a deafening roar ripped through the night sky.

The sound of helicopter engines drowned out the rain and the ocean.

Three blinding spotlight beams shot down from the darkness. They locked directly onto Jaret and Kayleigh.

Before they could even pull apart, the screech of tires echoed across the asphalt.

Four armored black Cadillac Escalades smashed through the chain-link fence of the port. They swarmed the area, boxing the couple in.

The doors flew open. Twenty heavily armed men in black tactical gear poured out like ghosts.

Dozens of red infrared laser dots painted Jaret's forehead and Kayleigh's chest.

Jaret's face drained of all color. His black umbrella slipped from his fingers and splashed into a bloody puddle.

The cigarette fell from Kayleigh's trembling lips. Her knees gave out, and she collapsed onto the wet concrete.

A bulletproof Maybach rolled slowly into the center of the spotlights. The engine purred low, like a beast catching its breath.

A man in a tailored suit stepped out of the passenger side. It was Lincoln, a chief executive assistant. He opened a massive black umbrella and pulled open the rear door.

A man stepped out into the storm.

His long legs were clad in dark, expensive trousers. His posture was rigid, commanding, and completely upright.

Augustina's translucent form violently shuddered.

It was Charles Moses. The tyrant of Wall Street. The monster of Blackwood Manor.

The man who the entire world believed was confined to a wheelchair, paralyzed and disfigured from