HIS 6TH BRIDE FATAL OBSESSION

The mansion smelled like money. Polished wood, fresh flowers, something expensive burning in a fireplace somewhere. It made my stomach turn.

The five women stood perfectly still, like they'd been positioned there. Arranged. I wondered if Killian had called ahead, told them to line up and look pretty for his newest acquisition.

The one in front stepped forward first. She was stunning in that effortless way that came from good genes and better surgeries. Mid thirties maybe, with dark hair that fell in perfect waves and eyes that assessed me like I was something she might buy at an auction.

"Cassia," she said, my name rolling off her tongue with just enough condescension to sting. "How... young you are."

"Isla," Killian's voice held a warning. "Play nice."

So this was Isla. The kind of woman who smiled while planning your destruction.

"I'm always nice," Isla said sweetly, but her eyes stayed cold. "Welcome to the family, darling."

Family. Right.

The second woman was younger, maybe late twenties, with blonde hair cut short and sharp. She looked me up and down with open disdain, then turned to Killian.

"Really?" she said flatly. "Another one?"

"Nessa." Killian's tone was sharp now. Harder.

Nessa. The rebel. I could see it in the way she stood, arms crossed, jaw set. She wasn't afraid of him, or she was too angry to care anymore.

"What?" Nessa challenged. "We're supposed to pretend this is normal? That bringing home a teenager is..."

"I'm nineteen," I cut in. All eyes snapped to me. "And I can speak for myself, thanks."

Nessa's eyebrows shot up. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. "Oh, I like this one."

"Don't get attached," the third woman said quietly. She was beautiful in a faded sort of way, like a painting left too long in the sun. Thirtyish, with auburn hair and tired eyes. "They never last."

The indifferent one, I realized. The one who'd checked out emotionally.

"Vera," Killian said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. Pity, maybe. "That's enough."

Vera shrugged, already losing interest, staring past us at nothing.

The fourth woman hadn't moved from her position on the steps. She was small, delicate, with dark skin and careful eyes. She watched everything, said nothing, and I recognized the look immediately.

The survivor. Calculator. Schemer.

She met my gaze and smiled slightly, like we were sharing a private joke. I didn't smile back.

The last woman finally stepped forward, and something in her expression was different from the others. Softer. Almost kind.

"I'm Thalia," she said, her voice warm. "I know this must be overwhelming. If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

The ally who shouldn't be trusted.

"How generous of you," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

Thalia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes. Good. She knew I wasn't buying it.

"Elena will show you to your room," Killian said, gesturing to an older woman in a crisp uniform who'd appeared silently beside us. A housekeeper, I assumed. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."

He started to walk away, then paused, turning back to look at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Oh, and Cassia?" His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the audience. "Wear something beautiful. I want to look at you."

Heat flushed my cheeks. From anger, I told myself. Only anger.

The wives watched him go, then turned back to me with varying expressions of pity, amusement, and calculation.

"Well," Isla said, smoothing her already perfect hair. "This should be entertaining."

Elena led me through a maze of hallways, each more obscenely decorated than the last. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably belonged in museums. Every surface gleamed. Every corner was perfect.

It felt like a mausoleum.

"Here," Elena said, opening a door at the end of a long corridor.

I stepped inside and stopped.

The room was enormous. Bigger than my entire house had been. A massive four poster bed dominated the space, draped in silk that probably cost more than a car. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over manicured gardens. There was a sitting area, a desk, a door that led to what I assumed was a bathroom.

And roses. Dozens of white roses in crystal vases, their scent overwhelming.

"Mr. Thorne had these brought in for you," Elena said. "He thought you'd like them."

I walked to the nearest vase, touched a petal. Soft. Perfect. Probably flown in from somewhere exotic.

I hated them.

"Your clothes have been unpacked," Elena continued, gesturing to a walk in closet I hadn't noticed. "Though Mr. Thorne has arranged for a more... suitable wardrobe to be delivered tomorrow."

Of course he had. Can't have his newest prize wearing Target jeans.

"Dinner at eight," Elena reminded me. "The dining room is on the first floor, west wing. Someone will come collect you."

She left, closing the door with a soft click.

I was alone.

I walked to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass, and finally let myself breathe.

One hour in this place and I already felt like I was suffocating.

The grounds stretched out below me, beautiful and vast and surrounded by walls. High walls. Topped with security cameras.

A prison, I reminded myself. No matter how pretty.

My eyes caught on movement near the gardens. A figure, too far away to make out clearly, but moving with purpose. Young, from the way they walked. Male, I thought.

He looked up suddenly, like he felt me watching, and even from this distance I could tell he was staring right back.

Then he disappeared into the trees.