Chapter 1

I caught my fiancé satisfying my stepsister on our wedding bed. Three hours before I was supposed to walk down the aisle.

My plan was simple—expose them at the altar, humiliate them both, and disappear.

Then my stepsister's mother poisoned my champagne.

The last thing I saw before everything went dark was my father watching me collapse.

He didn't call for help.

When I opened my eyes, I was in a morgue.

Not on a table, thank God—sitting on a cold metal chair, wearing a hospital gown, with a man in a black suit standing over me.

"Miss Vivian Marsh?" he asked, not a trace of emotion on his face.

"That depends," I croaked. "Am I dead?"

"Clinically, you were dead for four minutes," he said, handing me a glass of water. "You've been in a coma for three weeks."

Three weeks.

I took the water. My hands didn't shake. They never do.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Gerald. I am the personal attorney of Mr. Damien Blackwell."

Damien Blackwell.

Everyone in the city knew that name.

Youngest billionaire in the country. Built Blackwell Industries from nothing. Owns half the real estate in Manhattan.

Also known as the most cursed man alive.

Three fiancées. All dead within a year of the engagement.

His business partners had a habit of going insane. His household staff never lasted more than a month. Rumor had it his own mother threw herself from the rooftop of Blackwell Tower the day after he was born.

The tabloids called him "The Devil of Fifth Avenue."

"Mr. Blackwell has a proposal for you," Gerald continued. "A contract marriage. Two years. In exchange, you will receive full medical coverage, a penthouse residence, and upon completion of the contract—fifty million dollars."

I stared at him.

"Why me?"

Gerald hesitated. For the first time, something like discomfort crossed his face.

"Because, Miss Marsh… you are the only woman who has survived being in his proximity for more than seventy-two hours."

"What do you mean, 'survived'?"

"During your coma, you were kept in the Blackwell private medical wing," he said carefully. "Every other patient on that floor experienced severe psychological episodes within forty-eight hours. Hallucinations. Paranoia. Two nurses attempted suicide."

He paused.

"You slept peacefully for twenty-one days."

I looked down at my hands.

No trembling. No fear. No pain.

I'd been born with congenital analgesia—the inability to feel physical pain. After years of my father's neglect and my stepsister's cruelty, the emotional numbness had followed.

I couldn't feel pain. I couldn't feel fear. Most days, I couldn't feel much of anything at all.

"Where do I sign?" I said.

Gerald blinked. "You… don't want to think about it?"

"My fiancé is sleeping with my stepsister. My father watched me get poisoned and did nothing. I have no money, no home, and apparently, I just came back from the dead."

I took the pen from his breast pocket.

"What exactly do I need to think about?"

Gerald stared at me for a long moment, then pulled out a contract thicker than a dictionary.

"One more thing, Miss Marsh," he said quietly. "Mr. Blackwell can be… difficult."

"Difficult how?"

Gerald opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"You'll see."