The Unwanted Wife Is A Zillionaire Heiress

The wind whipped through the rows of granite headstones, carrying a sharp bite that settled deep into Audrey Bishop's bones.

She pulled the collar of her black trench coat tighter against her neck. Her fingers were stiff, the skin pale and numb from the November chill. She stood completely still, her boots sinking slightly into the damp, freezing earth of the private Long Island cemetery.

She leaned down. Her knees popped in the quiet air.

She placed a bouquet of pure white roses against the cold base of the headstone. Her bare fingertips traced the carved letters of the name.

Cole Christian.

Her chest tightened. A familiar, suffocating pressure built behind her ribs, making it hard to pull oxygen into her lungs. She swallowed hard, forcing the lump in her throat down.

She straightened her back and lifted her left wrist. The metal of her watch was like ice against her skin.

Three o'clock.

Two full hours had passed since the time they had agreed upon. Two hours of standing in the freezing wind, staring at her dead son's name.

Audrey reached into her deep coat pocket and pulled out her phone. The screen lit up, illuminating her pale face. There were no missed calls. There were no text messages. The notification center was completely blank.

She took a shallow breath, her chest aching, and dialed Colton Christian's private number.

She held the phone to her ear. The plastic was freezing.

One ring. Two rings. Three. Four. Five.

The line clicked, and the mechanical, heartless voice of the automated voicemail system filled her ear.

"I am waiting for you."

She spoke the words mechanically, her voice rough and dry. She pressed the end button and dropped the phone back into her pocket.

A dead, brown leaf blew across the grass and landed directly on the pristine petals of the white roses. Audrey knelt again and brushed it away. Her hand lingered over the flowers for a second longer.

Then, she heard it.

The distinct, rhythmic crunch of tires rolling over the gravel path behind her.

Audrey's heart slammed against her ribs. A sudden rush of heat flooded her frozen veins. She spun around, her eyes wide, searching the long, winding road leading to the burial site.

A black car pulled up and shifted into park.

Audrey's shoulders instantly dropped. The heat drained from her body, leaving her colder than before. It wasn't Colton's silver Aston Martin. It was a black Mercedes sedan.

The driver's side door opened. A man stepped out into the freezing wind. He was wearing a dark, custom-tailored suit. He popped open a large black umbrella and began walking toward her.

Jerry Barrera.

Audrey's stomach sank. Jerry was Colton's closest friend, his right-hand man in the social circles, and supposedly, one of the few people Audrey could tolerate in her husband's world. But seeing him here, right now, made a sour taste rise in the back of her throat.

Jerry walked up the gravel path, his expensive