Chapter 1

I am not Elias Blackwood's widow, but I am standing beside his coffin in her ring.

I count the seconds between the priest's breaths. The number of black cars parked along the gravel drive. The lies I'll have to tell before noon.

Today, I am Mara Voss, grieving widow of Elias Blackwood. Billionaire. Monster. Stranger.

The ring on my finger weighs more than my rent. A stranger gave it to me last night in a parking garage. He didn't show his face. He only said,

"Wear it. Say you're his wife. If you don't, your sister dies."

Celeste has been missing for three years. I stopped believing in miracles. I never stopped believing in her.

So I put on the black dress. I practiced the trembling chin. I let a makeup artist paint shadows under my eyes. Now I stand beside a mahogany casket worth more than my entire life, and I pretend my heart is breaking.

It isn't. It's racing.

The church is cold. Stone walls. Stained glass. Hundreds of people in black, most of them pretending to be sad. I can tell the real mourners from the actors. The real ones keep their hands still. The actors touch their tissues too much.

I am the best actor here.

"Mrs. Blackwood,"

a woman whispers.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

I lower my eyes.

"Thank you."

I don't know Elias Blackwood. I never met him. But I know his name from the news. Hotels. Oil. A private island. A lawsuit that disappeared. A wife who was never photographed.

Now I'm her.

The priest says something about ashes and dust. I stare at the casket and wonder if there's even a body inside. The stranger in the garage didn't tell me. He only gave me the ring and a warning.

"Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't smile. Don't take off the ring."

I didn't ask why. When you're broke enough, you stop asking questions. You just count the money you'll never see.

Then I feel him.

Someone stands too close behind me. Not touching. Just close enough to steal the air. I don't turn. I don't have to. The entire church has gone quieter, like animals sensing a predator.

Adrian Blackwood.

Elias's nephew. The heir. The man in every business magazine, always photographed half in shadow. He's tall, dark-haired, and wearing a suit that costs more than my car. His face is sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes are worse.

He leans down. His lips brush my ear.

"Keep crying,"

he murmurs.

"Every tear earns you ten thousand dollars."

My body goes still.

"But if you take off that ring,"

he continues, voice soft as a knife,

"the car outside will kill you first. Then me."

I turn my head just enough to see him. He's not joking. There's no smile. No warmth. Just a cold, precise threat.

"Who are you?"

I whisper.

"The only reason you're still breathing."

The priest keeps talking. Nobody notices us. Or maybe everyone notices, and nobody dares to look.

Adrian steps back. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't need to. I can still feel the threat crawling under my skin.

I face the casket again. My hands are shaking. I hide them in my black gloves. Ten thousand a tear. I could cry for real now.

But I don't. I think of Celeste.

Three years ago, she vanished. No note. No body. No answers. The police stopped looking after six months. I never did. I checked morgues. I called hospitals. I followed psychics, scammers, anyone who promised a clue. I lost my job. I lost my apartment. I almost lost my mind.