Chapter 2

Night in Mantharic was far from gentle. Neon lit the sky in a feverish red, a hue that dragged Edward's mind back to the blood spilled at that wedding.

He sat on the floor of the Crownleigh's top-floor suite, a splash of whiskey staining the intricate weave of a Persian rug, its sweet, decadent scent mingling with the stale air of his isolation. His hand gripped the stem of a crystal glass so tightly it seemed he might shatter it.

Three days.

Three days since the funeral, and every time he closed his eyes, Anne's blood-soaked body appeared… only to morph into Victoria's face as she demanded marriage. The two images overlapped until he could no longer tell where reality ended and the nightmare began.

He despised her.

Victoria had twisted Anne's death into an excuse to get close, to seduce, to invade his life. And yet, the cruelest torment was how, whenever he tried to sever himself from the Windsor family entirely, her eyes—so painfully like Anne's—would surface in his mind, pushing him closer to the edge.

The doorbell rang.

The door cracked open, spilling warm golden light from the hallway across the rug in a long, narrow beam.

Victoria stood there, clutching a altered room key. She had rushed to Mantharic the moment she learned Edward was traveling, convinced she could soften him with sincerity, fulfill Anne's final wish.

She wore a vintage white silk slip dress—Anne's favorite style—its elegant cut tracing her figure with deliberate precision. For this humiliating attempt at "winning him over", she had copied Anne in every detail: her hairstyle, her perfume, even the way she walked.

She told herself that maybe, just maybe, Edward would accept her for Anne's sake.

But as her eyes adjusted to the dim suite, she froze. This wasn't her room. The card had been switched.

She drew a breath, ready to wake him. "Edward?"

The man on the sofa stirred.

Edward lifted his head, bleary eyes catching on the white silhouette framed in the doorway. That face, that outline, the unmistakable scent of Anne's perfume.

"Anne?" His voice cracked.

He lurched to his feet, knocking a glass off the table without noticing. His gaze locked on her, disbelief and a wild, fragile joy flooding his features.

"You came back… I knew you weren't dead… I knew…"

He closed the distance in a rush, seizing her arm before she could speak. His hands clamped around her waist, the heat of his body and the sharp tang of alcohol enveloping her.

"Edward, look at me, I'm—"

"Shh." His interruption was rough, almost desperate. Trembling fingers traced her cheek, sliding from her brow to her lips, touching what he had never dared to in waking life.

"Don't speak. Please… don't leave me again."

The heir to the Russell Group, so often cold and untouchable, now sounded like a broken child. His voice trembled with a plea that cut straight to her chest. "I'm losing my mind, Anne. Don't go…"

Victoria's heart clenched, pain radiating outward. She had watched him from the shadows for years, always as Anne's protector. Now he held her, but called another's name.

'Is this what you wanted, Anne?' she thought. 'Is this your idea of happiness for me?'

Edward gave her no time to answer. His mouth claimed her lips, the kiss wild with relief and possession, as if reclaiming something stolen.

"Mmph…" She tried to push him away, palms braced against his chest.

"I want all of you… Anne, I want…" His breath was hot against her neck, tears burning as they slid over her collarbone.

And in that moment, Victoria stopped resisting. If this was the price of restoring the family, she would pay it all.

She closed her eyes, a cold tear slipping free as her arms circled his back. Her voice was little more than a sigh. "Alright."

The word shattered the last restraint in him. He swept her into his arms, carrying her to the bed as rain battered the windows and the room ignited with a consuming fire born of love and desperation.

His touch was both urgent and tender, his whispers relentless—"I love you," "We'll be together forever." Each phrase was a dangerous sweetness sinking into her battered heart.

She endured his claim, nails digging into the sheets, her mind flashing with the image of Anne's gentle, defiant smile as she took the blade.

'I'm sorry… and I love you, Edward,' she thought, the confession swallowed back into the rhythm of their tangled bodies.

Edward woke with a pounding headache.

The warmth in his arms made him tighten his hold, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Anne had come back.

But when he opened his eyes, the smile froze, cracked, and fell away. It wasn't Anne.

It was Victoria.

Memory slammed into him, and he wished for oblivion. He had slept with her. He had betrayed Anne for this calculating, manipulative woman.

"Get out!" His roar was raw and violent. He sat up, kicking her off the bed.

She hit the carpet hard, pain exploding through her limbs.

Before she could speak, his hand closed around her throat, pinning her to the mattress like a predator gone feral.

"You set me up?" His teeth were clenched, each word forced through rage. "You disgust me! You wore Anne's dress to climb into my bed? Do you even know what shame is?"

Her face reddened, hands clawing at his wrists, choking sounds spilling from her lips.

"Are you that desperate for a man? Huh?" His fury surged at her struggle. "You're not worthy of her. You're not worthy of touching anything that belonged to her."

He released her abruptly.

"I didn't…" she gasped, collapsing to the floor, coughing until tears blurred her vision. The bruise on her neck was already darkening.

Edward stood, pulling on a robe without looking at her. His eyes were cold, contemptuous.

"Don't think sleeping with me gets you into the Russell family. I will only ever love Anne. As for you…"

He drew a wad of cash from his wallet and flung it into her face. The edge of a bill nicked her cheek before the money scattered across her bare skin.

"Consider it payment for your performance last night. Take it, and get out."

Without another glance, he strode into the bathroom, slamming the door. The sound of running water filled the suite, as if he could wash her from his skin.

Victoria sat among the fallen bills, her body marked with bruises from the night before.

The door slammed shut, the impact rattling the walls. Alone on the wrecked bed, she curled in on herself, burying her face in her arms, and finally broke into sobs.

At the far end of the hallway, a man in a baseball cap slipped a miniature camera into his pocket. He glanced at the sent email on his phone—addressed to gossip outlets hungry for scandal.

Attached were photos of Victoria disheveled in bed, along with high-definition shots and video of Edward storming out that morning.

His mouth curved into a cold smile as he pressed call. "As you wished, it's done."