Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil

Sunlight sliced through the heavy silk curtains of the master suite, carrying dust motes and the cloying, funeral-home scent of Casablanca lilies. It was a perfect morning for a wedding. Or a funeral.

Maria, the head maid, balanced a silver tray on her hip. She adjusted her professional smile, the one that made her cheeks ache, and pushed open the double doors to Brittny Graves's bedroom.

"Good morning, Miss Brittny. Your detox juice is-"

The smile died on her face.

The king-sized bed was pristine. The sheets were unwrinkled, cool to the touch. It looked like a slab in a morgue, waiting for a body that would never arrive.

Maria's tray tipped. Orange juice sloshed over the rim, staining the white carpet like acidic urine. She scrambled toward the walk-in closet, her breath hitching in her throat.

Empty.

The jewelry box was overturned. Necklaces and diamond studs were gone, leaving only velvet indentations where a fortune used to sit. The wall safe gaped open, a black, toothless mouth.

On the vanity, pinned down by a tube of Chanel lipstick, was a sheet of heavy cream stationery.

Maria's fingers trembled so violently she nearly tore the paper. She read the first line. Then the second.

A scream tore through her throat, raw and jagged, shattering the silence of the Graves estate.

Down the hall, in the smallest guest room usually reserved for storage, Brooke Frederick stood before a cracked mirror.

She didn't flinch at the scream.

Her pulse remained steady, a slow, rhythmic thrum against the inside of her wrist. She adjusted the collar of her black dress-a stark contrast to the pastel joy expected of the day-and checked her watch.

7:03 AM. Right on schedule.

She pulled the drawer of the bedside table open. Inside lay a small, nondescript communication device. The screen flashed a stream of garbled code, a chaotic waterfall of numbers that meant nothing to anyone else. To her, it was a confirmation.

Asset secure. Extraction complete. Helping her half-sister escape was the first move in a war Brittny didn't even know was being fought. The marriage contract was a prize, and Brooke had just cleared the board of her only rival.

She didn't smile. Smiling was for people who had safety nets.

Brooke picked up the device and dropped it into a mug of cold coffee on the nightstand. The device was a ghost, designed for a single use before its circuits dissolved. There was a faint hiss, a pop, and the smell of ozone as the circuitry fried.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

The hallway outside erupted. Heavy footsteps pounded against the hardwood.

"No! No, no, no!"

The voice belonged to Mistress Yun, her stepmother. It was a sound Brooke had heard a thousand times-usually directed at her father's wallet, but today, it was the sound of a woman watching her social climbing ladder burn to ash.

Brooke opened her door.

The butler, Thomas, nearly flattened her. He was sprinting, his face a mask of red, sweaty