Chapter 1

Elara Voss married a satisfying corpse — at least, that's what they promised her.

One year. Ten million dollars. A husband too sick to touch her. The Blackwell family needed a bride to satisfy their grandfather's dying wish, and Elara needed the money to keep her younger sister alive.

Simple enough.

She signed the contract without reading the fine print. She put on the white dress. She walked down the aisle of the Blackwell private chapel toward a man in a wheelchair, his face half-hidden behind an oxygen mask.

Killian Blackwell. Thirty-one. Heir to the Blackwell empire. Diagnosed with a degenerative nerve disease two years ago. Given six months to live — eighteen months ago.

He was already supposed to be dead.

The ceremony was short. No guests. No vows. Just a judge, a signature, and the cold weight of a platinum ring on her finger.

His hand was surprisingly warm when he slid it on.

Elara glanced at him. Above the oxygen mask, his eyes were the color of a winter storm — pale gray, sharp, and entirely too alert for a dying man.

She looked away quickly.

That night, his staff escorted her to the master bedroom on the third floor of the Blackwell estate. The room was enormous — dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, and a bed large enough for six people.

"Mr. Blackwell will remain in his medical suite on the first floor," the housekeeper informed her. "You won't be disturbed."

Perfect. Elara exhaled. She kicked off her heels and sat on the edge of the bed, massaging her aching feet. Her phone buzzed.

How did it go? Her sister's nurse.

Done. Transfer should come through tomorrow. Don't let anyone move her until I confirm.

She tossed the phone aside and closed her eyes. Ten million dollars. One year of pretending. She could do this.

The click of the door lock made her freeze.

She hadn't locked it — but she hadn't unlocked it either. The door was supposed to require a keycard only she and the housekeeper had.

Footsteps. Slow. Steady. No wheelchair. No shuffle of a sick man dragging himself across the floor.

Elara's eyes snapped open.

Killian Blackwell stood in the doorway.

No wheelchair. No oxygen mask. No trembling limbs.

He was tall — at least six-two — with broad shoulders filling out a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, and those storm-gray eyes pinned her in place like a butterfly under glass.

He stepped inside. Closed the door. Locked it.

"W-What are you—" Elara scrambled backward on the bed.

Killian crossed the room in three strides. He placed one hand on the headboard above her, caging her in. His face was inches from hers. She could smell cedar and smoke on his skin.

"Did they tell you I was weak?" His voice was low, rough — nothing like the feeble whisper she'd heard at the altar.

Elara's heart slammed against her ribs. "You — you're supposed to be dying."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips.

"Sweetheart, I've never felt more alive."