Chapter 1
Jayden Ford coughed blood as a guard clamped a hand on the back of his neck, forcing him to bow before the altar.
No bride waited at the front of the chapel. Only a cold, hardwood coffin.
The guests wore grim, fascinated expressions. They were not here to celebrate. They had come to witness a grotesque mockery of a wedding.
Word was, Queenie Sherman, the Chancellor's own daughter, had died in a riding accident three days ago. But the Chancellor couldn't bear to bury her alone.
So he had chosen Jayden, the poorest, sickest scholar in the city, a man with one foot in the grave, to serve as his "ghost groom."
If Jayden agreed, he would receive a fortune in gold. It was enough to keep his mother comfortable for the rest of her life.
Jayden had no other choice.
When the ceremony ended, they led Jayden to the bridal chamber. No wedding bed awaited him. Only the coffin.
Candles burned low, casting shadows across his pale face. His trembling hands pushed the coffin lid aside.
A strange herbal scent wafted out. The woman inside was deathly pale, eyes sealed shut, yet her chest rose and fell with the faintest, most fragile rhythm.
*****
The great hall of the Chancellor Manor had become a grotesque tableau, split between blood-red banners and the black of mourning.
Crimson drapery hung from the rafters, twisting in the cold draft, half obscuring pale funeral ribbons that fluttered like dead leaves.
Jayden's oversized crimson wedding coat hung on his skeletal frame like a paper doll propped upright. The neck showing above the collar was alarmingly thin, blue veins pulsing weakly beneath translucent skin.
"Bow your head." The officiant's voice rang through the empty hall, its final note carrying a barely perceptible tremor.
A guard shoved Jayden forward, forcing him to stoop over the cold marble floor.
Where a bride should have stood, there was only the gleaming black coffin, dark hardwood, set upon a bier by eight pallbearers.
The coffin reeked of fresh varnish and incense smoke, tightening his throat.
Jayden doubled over, coughing, bony hand clamped over his mouth, the gold embroidery on his coat shaking violently.
When he pulled his hand away, his palm was stained with bright red blood.
At the head table, Andrew Sherman, the Chancellor, rubbed the ring on his thumb, eyelids lowered like a stone statue.
The deep creases at the corners of his eyes held no grief for a dead daughter. Only calculation.
Andrew rose and approached Jayden, pressing a bony hand into Jayden's thin shoulder, nails biting through the fabric.
"Jayden," he whispered, his voice sliding against Jayden's ear like a snake through grass. "You begged for this marriage yourself. Once you cross this threshold, you belong to Queenie.
"The rules of this house are absolute. Your life is no longer your own. Do you understand?"
Jayden looked up into those hawk-sharp eyes.
The guests averted their gazes. Some sipped wine. Some pretended to study the tapestries. Not one dared look directly at the grotesque ceremony.
Jayden swallowed the copper taste of blood and lowered his head. "I understand."
He watched the coffin being carried toward the rear courtyard, his heart sinking into a dry well.
A man who held the empire in his palm was burying his daughter with a living man, and not a single soul in this room of nobles found it obscene.
The weight of it was far more than a fortune in gold could ever repay.
A back parlor had been hastily turned into a bridal chamber. Deep red drapery hung from the walls, washing the whitewashed room in a bloody glow. No bed stood at the center. Only the black coffin lay across a pair of wooden sawhorses.
The heavy double doors slammed shut from the outside. A moment later, the sharp click of a brass lock.
Jayden slumped against the door and slid to the floor.
The air inside was unnaturally cold, laced with a strange, sweet herbal scent.
Two tall candles bled wax onto the brass holder, pooling like clotted blood.
Jayden caught his breath, his gaze locked on the coffin.
Driven by a grim sense of obligation, he thought that since he had taken the Shermans' gold, he owed this wife a final measure of decency.
He forced himself upright and walked unsteadily to the coffin.
The lid hadn't been nailed shut. It sat slightly ajar.
Jayden drew a deep breath, dug his fingers into the gap, and heaved.
The heavy hardwood groaned in protest. The lid scraped sideways, slowly revealing what lay inside.