Till Death Do Us Lie
"You sold yourself to save them. Now I'll destroy them to keep you."
Five years ago, Seraphina Winters made a devil's bargain.
Her stepmother's medical bills were crushing her family. Her father was drowning in debt. Her stepsister Madison begged her: "Please, Sera. You're the only one beautiful enough. The Ashford family is desperate for a bride."
The deal was simple: Marry Damien Ashford, the dying heir trapped in a wheelchair. Play the devoted wife at charity galas. Smile for the cameras. When he dies—six months, maybe a year—collect your widow's inheritance and save your family.
No love. No touch. Just a transaction.
Seraphina signed the contract in blood-red ink and became Mrs. Ashford overnight.
For five years, she's lived in a golden cage. Her husband is cold, distant, barely speaks to her outside of public events. He sits in that wheelchair like a king on a broken throne, watching her with eyes that seem to see straight through her soul. She tells herself she's doing her duty. Tells herself it's temporary. Tells herself not to notice how devastatingly handsome he is when he thinks she's not looking.
Then her stepsister Madison crosses the line.
At the annual Ashford Foundation Gala, in front of Manhattan's elite, Madison humiliates Seraphina publicly—calls her a gold-digger, a whore who married a cripple for money, announces that their father gambled away everything and Sera's "sacrifice" was all for nothing.
Seraphina runs from the ballroom in tears, her perfect facade shattered.
Three days later, Madison is found dead. The news reports it as the work of the Ghost—New York's most feared assassin, the phantom who kills for the city's most powerful crime lord.
Seraphina should be horrified. She should be grieving.
Instead, she's watching the press conference, and a silhouette in the background catches her eye. The way he moves. The shape of his shoulders. That specific tilt of his head.
Wait.
She knows that silhouette.
Her hands shake as she turns to look at her husband, sitting in his wheelchair across the room, eyes fixed on the television with an expression she's never seen before.
Dark. Possessive. Satisfied.
"Damien," she whispers. "What did you do?"
He doesn't answer. But when he finally looks at her, his eyes are absolutely glacial.
"I told you, Seraphina." His voice is velvet and violence. "In our wedding vows. Til death do us part."
He stands up.
Seraphina stops breathing.
Damien Ashford walks toward her—no wheelchair, no weakness, nothing but lethal grace and terrifying power. He's been lying for five years. About everything.
"You're mine," he says, backing her against the wall, his hand sliding possessively around her throat—not choking, just claiming. "You sold yourself to me. Signed the contract. Said the vows. And I've been waiting, Seraphina. So fucking patiently. For you to stop seeing me as the dying man and start seeing me as the monster I actually am."
"The Ghost," she breathes.
His smile is beautiful and terrible. "Your husband. Your monster. Your killer."
