The Wedding Night
The first time I saw my husband, he was standing over a dead man.
The second time, I was walking down the aisle toward him.
And the third time, he locked our bedroom door and told me I had made the biggest mistake of my life.
I was beginning to suspect he might be right.
“Take off the dress.”
Adrian Blackwood stood with his back to me, pouring himself a drink. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if ordering his new wife to undress were no more interesting than asking for the time.
I stared at him.
Outside the windows, Manhattan glittered beneath the November rain. Somewhere below us, two hundred guests were still celebrating our marriage. Champagne was flowing, cameras were flashing, and society’s most powerful families were congratulating themselves on an alliance that would make them richer than ever.
Nobody downstairs knew that the bride wanted to run.
Nobody knew that the groom had threatened her father.
And absolutely nobody knew that I had married a man I hated.
“I beg your pardon?”
Adrian turned.
He had removed his jacket and loosened his black tie. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his forearms, revealing a watch that probably cost more than my childhood home. He was thirty-four, devastatingly handsome, and possessed the kind of face that made people forgive things they should never forgive.
His eyes were the worst part.
Gray. Cold. Unreadable.
“Did I suddenly start speaking another language, Evelyn?”
“I’m not taking off anything.”
His gaze traveled over my wedding dress before returning to my face.
“Then sleep in it. I don’t particularly care.”
He walked past me toward the adjoining sitting room.
I should have felt relieved.
Instead, humiliation burned beneath my skin.
“You could at least pretend to be a decent husband.”
He stopped.
For one terrible second, the room seemed to lose its oxygen.
Then he turned slowly.
“A decent husband?”
“Yes.”
“You married me because your father is drowning in debt. I married you because your father possesses something I need. Let’s not insult each other by pretending this is a love story.”
The words struck harder than I wanted them to.
I lifted my chin.
“I never expected you to love me.”
“Good.”
“Or touch me.”
“Excellent.”
“Or even look at me.”
Something changed in his expression.
It was subtle. A tightening around his mouth, a flicker in those impossible gray eyes.
Then it disappeared.
“Careful, Evelyn. You might start sounding disappointed.”
I hated him.
I hated his arrogance, his money, his perfectly controlled voice. I hated the way he could make me feel sixteen years old again, standing in my father’s study while powerful men discussed my future as if I weren’t there.
Most of all, I hated that Adrian Blackwood was the only man in the room who seemed entirely unafraid of me.
I stepped closer.
“You think you own me because I signed a marriage certificate?”
“No.”
His answer came so quickly that it startled me.
He set his glass down.
“I think you’re here because you made a choice.”
“My father made the choice.”
“Your father asked me to marry you. I gave you the opportunity to refuse.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You gave me twenty-four hours to decide whether my father would lose everything.”
“I gave you twenty-four hours to decide whether you wanted to help him.”
“You are a monster.”
“Possibly.”
He moved toward the door.
I expected him to leave. To abandon me in the enormous bedroom with its silk sheets, expensive flowers, and suffocating silence.
Instead, he paused beside me.
“There’s one rule you need to understand.”
I folded my arms.
“Only one? I’m disappointed.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Do not enter my study.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He reached for the handle.
“Adrian?”
He looked back.
I didn’t know why I asked the question. Perhaps because I was tired of being afraid. Perhaps because I needed to know whether the man I’d married possessed even the smallest piece of humanity.
“Have you ever loved anyone?”
For the first time that evening, he looked genuinely angry.
Not irritated.
Not amused.
Angry.
The silence stretched between us.
Then he said, “Once.”
Something in his voice made me wish I hadn’t asked.
“What happened?”
His expression hardened.
“She died.”
Before I could respond, he walked out.
The door closed behind him.
A moment later, I heard the unmistakable click of a lock.
I stood motionless in the center of our bedroom, still wearing the white dress I’d spent six months choosing, staring at the door through which my husband had disappeared.
Then I noticed something on the bedside table.
A small black envelope.
My name was written across it in unfamiliar handwriting.
Inside was a photograph.
A woman stood beside Adrian on a sunlit terrace, her dark hair blowing across her face. She was laughing, one hand resting against his chest.
He wasn’t looking at the camera.
He was looking at her.
And I had never seen him look at anyone that way.
On the back of the photograph, someone had written six words.
Ask your husband how she died.
My fingers went cold.
I turned the photograph over again, searching for a date, a name, anything that might explain why someone had left it in my bedroom.
There was nothing.
Only the woman, her smile, and Adrian’s hand resting possessively against her waist.
A knock sounded at the door.
I nearly dropped the photograph.
“Mrs. Blackwood?”
A woman’s voice came from the corridor.
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. Mr. Blackwood asked me to give you this.”
A folded note appeared beneath the door.
I waited until the footsteps faded before picking it up.
Three lines.
Nothing more.
Do not believe anything you hear about my first wife.
Do not ask me about her again.
And whatever you do, Evelyn, do not fall in love with me.
I read the final sentence twice.
Then I began to laugh.
Not because anything was funny.
Because, for the first time since agreeing to marry Adrian Blackwood, I understood something with absolute clarity.
He wasn’t afraid I would discover his secrets.
He was afraid I would discover the truth.
And I had just decided that, before this marriage was over, I would uncover every last one of them.
