Chapter 3
Back home, I scrolled through my phone and saw Nora's latest post.
A picture of her and Ian, locked in a passionate kiss under the northern lights in Iceland, was attached, with a caption that was a fiery declaration of their eternal love.
I poured myself a glass of ice water and drank it down, ignoring the blatant provocation.
In the beginning, what I had with Ian was real. There were no lies.
Then I saw him on a street corner, kissing Nora. The endless stream of traffic between us felt like an uncrossable river, a galaxy separating me from the man I thought I knew.
When I confronted him, he just laughed.
"I knew Nora long before I met you. For all you know, you're the other woman."
In that one moment, my pride shattered.
Nora was his dirty little secret, the beautiful, wild thing he loved but could never marry.
She had worked the clubs, where she had been with many powerful men.
He was ashamed of her past, and in their worst fights, he would call her a whore.
On the contrary, I was from a good family. I was "clean," like freshly fallen snow. I was his hand-picked, perfect bride.
After that day, I learned to play the game.
As long as the money kept coming in every month, I could be his perfect, smiling fiancée, no matter who he was sleeping with.
But he just had to push it. He had to have his grand, romantic gesture and fake his own death.
In that case, all his assets would soon be in my name.
Under the Icelandic sky, Ian held Nora close and promised her forever. Her eyes welled with tears as she rose on her toes to kiss him.
Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a text message.
Beep!
[Notice: A death certificate has been filed on your behalf by a family member. Please remind your family to complete the process of deregistering your legal status within seven days.]
Ian stared at the message, dumbfounded.
"What the hell is this?" he grumbled.
Nora saw the color drain from his face and leaned over to read the screen.
"Wow, you're really committed to the bit," she praised. "That fake death certificate looks so real."
But Ian had seen his parents' death certificates. This one was identical.
His knees went weak, and he nearly collapsed.
"Ian, what's wrong?" Nora asked, grabbing his arm.
His face was a ghostly white.
"It's... it's real," he stammered. "Shit! Am I... am I actually dead?"
The Icelandic wind howled, the frozen air stinging their faces. They ducked into a heated garage, and Ian clutched a mug of hot chocolate, his hands shaking as he frantically texted Stephen.
[Uncle Stephen, what the hell! Why did you file a real death certificate?]
[This was supposed to be an act!]
[Do you actually want me dead?]
When Stephen received the message, he was zipping up the back of my dress.
He typed back: [It's fake, Ian. I just used it to fool Lydia. Relax. I'm your uncle. I wouldn't actually kill you.]
Reading the message, Ian finally let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding.
He was just being paranoid.
Stephen doted on him, so Stephen would have no problem looking after Lydia.
Ian heard I was determined to give him a proper funeral. He was convinced that I was helplessly in love with him.
He looked up at the dark sky, a single, sincere tear rolling down his cheek.
He saw himself as a complete monster, convinced that my grief would be too much for me. He pictured me at the funeral, so heartbroken that I would literally make myself sick from crying.
He wasn't wrong.
At the funeral, I dramatically fainted in front of his memorial portrait three times.
The first time, I collapsed into Stephen's arms. I took the opportunity to cop a feel of his abs.
The second time, I fainted into Frank's arms, burying my face in his muscular chest and taking a long, deep breath.
The third time, I crumpled gracefully into the arms of Ian's arch-nemesis, Andrew Collins.
After the funeral, Andrew had me pinned against the wall, right in front of Ian's memorial photo.
"Such a shame," he purred. "That we have to do this with him watching."
I grabbed his tie and pulled him closer.
"We could always do it on his grave," I whispered. "If you're not afraid he'll get so pissed off he rises from the dead."
Andrew's mouth found mine, and between hungry kisses, he breathed, "You little vixen. You're going to be the death of me."
Suddenly, a cunning glint appeared in his eyes. He pulled back slightly, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Then again, you've already taken care of Ian. Guess that means I'm next on your list."
I reached into the sea of white lilies, plucked the most perfect one, snapped off the stem, and tucked the blossom into his breast pocket.
The night wind whipped my hair around my face like a vengeful spirit.
"Aren't I the death of you every night?" I purred.
He understood. A wicked grin spread across his face as his hand snaked under my dress.
"Then kill me again tonight," he growled.