Avana felt as though she were suspended in a vacuum, the air in the master suite suddenly devoid of oxygen. Her lungs burned with the effort of a breath that wouldn't come. The transition from the fairytale warmth of the balcony to this cold, clinical horror was so abrupt it felt like a physical blow to the solar plexus.
"You're lying," she whispered, her voice a thin, reedy thing that barely carried across the expanse of the ivory rug. "You've always been a liar, Austin. This is just another one of your sick games. Some... some twisted wedding prank? Did Andrew put you up to this? Is he hiding in the closet? Is there a camera?"
She began to laugh, a brittle, jagged sound that scraped against the silence. She looked around the room frantically, expecting her husband—her real husband, Andrew—to step out from behind the velvet curtains with that familiar, comforting smile, apologizing for the lapse in taste.
But Austin remained as stationary and formidable as a statue. The shadows cast by the chandelier elongated his silhouette, making him seem to tower over the room, an apex predator in a suit that cost more than her college tuition.
"Look at the document, Avana," he repeated. His voice was like velvet over gravel—smooth, deep, and terrifyingly certain. "Read the names."
Compelled by a horrific curiosity she couldn't suppress, Avana forced her leaden limbs to move. She took one step, then another, until she was close enough to smell him. He smelled of sandalwood, rain, and something metallic—like the edge of a blade. With trembling fingers, she snatched the paper from his hand, her skin accidentally brushing his. The contact sent a jolt of pure electricity through her, a spark of recognition that her brain desperately tried to veto.
She stared at the certificate.
The paper was heavy, cream-colored vellum with the official seal of the registrar embossed in gold. It was beautiful but a death warrant to her.
Her eyes skipped past the legal jargon, the dates, and the location of the ceremony. They landed on the signatures at the bottom. There, in the elegant, slightly slanted script she had practiced since she was a girl, was her name: Avana Hale. And right beside it, in a bold, aggressive scrawl that seemed to bite into the paper, was his: Austin Clins.
"No," she gasped, the word catching in a throat that felt like it was closing up. "No, the man at the altar... I looked him in the eye. I felt his hand. It was Andrew. I saw his light brown hair. I saw his blue eyes. I heard his voice. He said 'I do.' I heard him!"
Austin took a half-step forward, closing the distance until the heat radiating from his body began to melt the icy shock paralyzing her.
"Did you?" he asked quietly. "Or did you see what you expected to see? You were veiled, Avana. The sun was behind the officiant. You were shaking so hard I thought you might collapse before we even reached the exchange of rings. You didn't look at the man. You looked at the idea of him."
"That's not true!" she screamed, the sound echoing off the high, molded ceilings. "I know Andrew! I've loved him for a year! I know the way he smells, the way he speaks—"
"Andrew Frost is currently three thousand miles away," Austin interrupted, his tone devoid of any emotion other than a chilling, matter-of-fact clarity. "He was paid a very significant amount of money to ensure he wasn't within city limits today. He took the deal, Avana. He took it without a second thought."
The world tilted. Avana reached out, her hand finding the mahogany dresser to steady herself. The wood felt slick beneath her palm. "You're crazy. You're insane. He loves me. We were going to start a life. He bought me this house!"
Austin's eyes darkened, a flash of something—possessiveness, perhaps, or a deep-seated resentment—flickering in their depths. "Andrew Frost couldn't afford the down payment on the rug you're standing on. Every brick of this house, every thread of that dress, every orchid in those vases... it was all mine. It has always been mine. Just like you."
The sheer arrogance of the statement should have made her flare with anger, but she was too busy drowning in the implications. She remembered the signing. The room had been dim, the guests already moving toward the reception hall. Andrew—or the man she thought was Andrew—had leaned over her, his shadow obscuring the lines of the text. He had whispered, 'Just sign here, my love. It's almost over.'
She had signed. She had been so eager to be his that she hadn't even looked at the printed names.
"How?" she breathed, the horror finally sinking into her marrow. "How could you do this? Why would you do this? You hated me in school. You spent years making my life a living hell. You laughed when they tripped me. You..."
"I never hated you," Austin said, his voice dropping to a register that vibrated in her very bones.
He moved then, a slow, predatory glide that brought him directly into her personal space. He was so close she could see the faint pulse in his neck, the minute flecks of gold in his dark irises. The scent of him—that intoxicating, dangerous mix—wrapped around her like a shroud.
"I watched you," he corrected. "I watched you try to blend into the walls. I watched you settle for a man who didn't deserve to breathe the same air as you. I watched you prepare to give your life to a mediocrity like Andrew Frost because you thought you weren't meant for grandeur."
He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her face. Avana flinched, but she didn't move away. She couldn't. It was as if his presence had created a gravitational pull she was too weak to fight.
"You were never a shadow, Avana," he whispered, his thumb finally grazing the line of her jaw. His skin was warm, a startling contrast to the coldness of his words.
The touch was the catalyst. The reality of the situation crashed down on her—the silk of the gown, the gold on the walls, the ring on her finger that she now realized she hadn't actually looked at closely after the ceremony. She looked down at her left hand. The diamond was massive, an emerald cut flanked by baguettes. It wasn't the modest round solitaire Andrew had shown her months ago.
It was a trophy.
"This is kidnapping," she hissed, her eyes snapping to his, her fear finally turning into a sharp, jagged defiance. "This is fraud. I'll call the police. I'll have this annulled. I'll tell everyone what you did!"
Austin looked amused, the corners of his mouth twitching into the memories of that taunting smirk she remembered so well.
"The police?" he asked, his voice light. "On what grounds? You walked down that aisle of your own free will. There are three hundred witnesses who saw you smile. There is a video of you saying 'I do.' There is a legal, binding document with your signature on it. As far as the law is concerned, you are Mrs. Austin Clins."
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "And as for the 'fraud'... who would believe you? The girl who was so desperate to escape her past that she didn't even look at the man she was marrying? You'd be a laughingstock, Avana. A headline. A cautionary tale."
She felt the tears finally spill over, hot and stinging as they tracked through her makeup. "Why?" she sobbed. "What do you want with me? If you don't hate me, then what is this? Revenge? A bet?"
Austin's hand moved from her jaw to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the intricate lace of her updo. He tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him. His expression was no longer amused. It was intense, burning with a dark, terrifying hunger that made her knees go weak.
"I want exactly what I took," he said.
The silence returned, but it wasn't the peaceful silence of earlier. It was a predatory hush, the sound of a trap snapping shut. Avana looked at the man she had supposedly married—a man she had spent a decade trying to forget—and realized that the house wasn't a gift. It was a cage. And he was the keeper.
The weight of the wedding dress felt like lead now, the corset staves digging into her ribs, the heavy train anchoring her to the floor of this magnificent, terrible room. She felt the silk rustle as Austin shifted his weight, his eyes raking over her with a terrifyingly slow deliberation.
The man she thought she loved was gone. The life she thought she had started was a lie. There was only this room, this night, and the enemy from her past who had somehow stolen her future.
He stepped back just an inch, his gaze dropping to the ivory silk clinging to her curves, the shimmering fabric that marked her as his property. The air in the room seemed to hum with his next command, a finality that brooked no argument.
"Take off the dress, Avana. You're my wife now."
Again!
"You pervert!" Avana screamed.