Chapter 1

The night before the wedding, Ian Hayes finds his little bird, Nora Lane, the one he keeps in a gilded cage, flew the coop.

His best friend, Frank Lane, throws an arm around his shoulder with a devilish grin on his face. "Dude, Lydia's like a golden retriever. She'd forgive you for anything. You could fake your own death to get out of this wedding, and she'd still welcome you back with open arms."

"Besides," he whispers, "she's still waiting for you to foot the bill for her mom's medical treatments, right?"

From the other side of the door, I hear Ian sneer.

He is hooked.

A few days later, Ian stages his own death and is halfway across the world, kissing Nora under the shimmering dance of the Northern Lights in Iceland.

And me? I am curled up in the arms of his uncle, Stephen Hayes, whispering sweet nothings as I persuade him to sign the paperwork that will officially declare Ian dead, wiping his existence from every government record.

While his precious Nora was pulling Ian into a little chapel, ready to elope, Frank, the very same friend who has cooked up this whole scheme, is desperately trying to get on my good side by hiring eighteen male models to wait on my mother hand and foot.

At the end of their whirlwind romance tour, as Ian holds Nora in his arms, thinking this mad escape has all been worth it, I am busy partnering with his biggest rival to orchestrate a hostile takeover of the clean energy company he has poured his soul into building.

Eventually, the novelty wears off. Ian is done playing house.

He cuts Nora a fat check, a little something for her time, and comes crawling back home, expecting me to be there to pick up the pieces.

Only then does he discover that his fortune has been liquidated, his assets seized, and, thanks to the death certificate, he is now a ghost, a man who, on paper, doesn't exist at all.

*****

Ian Hayes threw a bachelor party, and of course, I was running late. Traffic was a nightmare. When I finally got there, I paused with my hand on the door, about to walk in, when I overheard his conversation.

"So, Ian," one of his buddies said with amusement. "That's three times Nora has run out on you, and three times you've called off the wedding.

"You gonna chase her down again this time?"

My hand froze on the doorknob. Eavesdropping was wrong, I knew, but I wanted to hear his answer.

I heard the pop and hiss of a beer can opening. Ian took a long swallow.

"Nora wasted the best years of her life on me," he said. "I owe her a proper ending."

His friend let out a derisive snort. "Right. And Lydia is more obedient than a golden retriever. You could fake your own death to get out of the wedding, and she'd still be there waiting to pick up the pieces of your broken-down ass.

"Besides, she's still counting on you to pay her mom's medical bills."

The room erupted in a chorus of cruel, grating laughter.

Ian didn't say a word to stop them.

After all, I wasn't Nora Lawrence. I wasn't the one he could never forget.

Through the closed door, I heard Ian scoff.

"I'll bet you three million bucks," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance, "that even if Lydia found out I was playing her, she'd take me back in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

"She's like a delicate little vine. I'm the big, strong oak. Without me to cling to, Lydia would just wither and die."

I swallowed the lump in my throat, clung to the last shred of my dignity, and walked away.

On the drive home, I sent him a text: [Not feeling well. You guys have fun without me.]

He didn't bother replying until the next morning: [Okay.]

In the two weeks leading up to the wedding, I knew exactly what Ian was planning. I didn't make a scene. I didn't confront him.

Instead, the more excited and blissfully ignorant I acted about our big day, the deeper the frown lines on his forehead became.

The night before the wedding, Ian was in bed with Nora. After they were done, lying there in that post-sex haze, the guilt finally hit him. With his back turned to her, he opened his banking app and wired me two million dollars.

I sent it back. He sent it again. We went back and forth, racking up an insane amount in transfer fees.

Finally, he upped the amount to three million and sent it directly to my mother's account.

This time, I had to physically suppress a laugh as I accepted it. I called him, my voice trembling with practiced concern.

"Ian, what's wrong? Is everything okay?" I asked. "You work so hard for your money, and I couldn't possibly spend this. I'll hold onto it for you, just in case. If you're ever in trouble, you know you can ask for it back."

My perfect, understanding-girlfriend act was so convincing it almost made him sick. He thought of Nora, whose greed was insatiable, and felt a wave of relief that I was the one he was marrying.

"Are you looking down on me?" he said, a defensive edge to his voice. "Just take it. I swear, even if I end up broke and homeless, I'll never ask for it back."

I fought to keep the smirk off my face. "Okay, Ian," I whispered obediently.

On the day of the wedding, I put on my custom couture gown and walked into the grand hall alone. There was no groom waiting for me at the altar.

The guests shot me looks of pity and contempt, whispering behind their hands.

When the news broke that Ian had been "killed" in a tragic car accident, I gave the performance of a lifetime.

I pressed a hand to my forehead, swayed dramatically, and collapsed, just as planned, into the arms of his uncle, Stephen Hayes.

"Stephen," I sobbed. "Ian's... he's gone.

"Does that mean... I'm a widow?"

I've been told I'm beautiful, like a fragile piece of art. And it's human nature to have a soft spot for a crying beauty.

Stephen was no exception. His grip on my wrist tightened, and for a second, I saw the raw desire in his eyes as he fought the urge to kiss me.

I pressed myself against his broad chest and looked up at him, pleading, "Ian's parents are gone. As his wife, it's my duty to arrange the funeral. Stephen, can you help me get the death certificate and have his legal status updated? Please?"

He snapped back to reality, his eyes clearing. He was Ian's only family. He couldn't do that to his nephew. It would be wrong.

He started to pull away, to refuse, but I slid my hand under his suit jacket, my fingers tracing patterns on his back, stoking the fire I knew was there.

He sucked in a sharp breath, the corners of his eyes flushing red with lust.

"Okay," he rasped. "I'll take care of it. I'll get his record wiped."