Married to the Tyrant in a Wheelchair

Early the next morning, a black Mercedes G63 with no license plates idled on the side of the road.

Augustina climbed into the back seat.

The driver, Gus, had been ordered to take her to the marriage exchange. He kept glancing at her through the rearview mirror, his eyes full of contempt.

"You really threw your life away," Gus sneered, tapping the steering wheel. "Going to serve a crippled freak. Hope you enjoy pushing a wheelchair for the rest of your miserable life."

Augustina leaned her head against the cold window. She watched the thick fog rolling in from the hills, treating Gus like he didn't exist.

The G63 drove out of the sunny city limits and entered the deepest, heavily forested private sectors of Beverly Hills.

The GPS screen on the dashboard suddenly flickered and turned to static. The signal was completely jammed.

Towering, century-old redwoods lined the narrow road, blocking out the sun. The temperature inside the car dropped noticeably.

Gus stopped talking. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel. The eerie silence of the woods was suffocating.

The SUV finally stopped in front of massive black wrought-iron gates. The metal was forged into the shape of thorns and black ravens.

There were no security guards in sight. Only military-grade cameras with blinking red lenses tracking the vehicle's movements.

With a heavy, grinding screech of metal, the gates slowly slid open on their own.

Gus swallowed hard. He put the car in park, absolutely refusing to drive onto the property.

"Get out," Gus muttered, his voice shaking. "I'm not going in there."

Augustina grabbed her battered duffel bag. She pushed the door open and hopped down onto the gravel.

The second her feet hit the ground, Gus slammed his foot on the gas. The G63 spun its tires and sped away like it was fleeing a war zone.

Augustina stood alone in the thick fog. She adjusted the strap of her bag and started walking up the long, black gravel driveway.

Ten minutes later, the fog parted.

A massive, imposing structure loomed before her. It was a blend of gothic architecture and a modern fortress.

The exterior walls were a cold, unforgiving charcoal gray. Every window was tinted black, giving the mansion an aura of absolute, suffocating silence.

An elderly man in a pristine black tailcoat stood at the top of the stone steps.

It was Mr. Albright, the British butler. He wore white gloves and stood with flawless, rigid posture.

Albright offered a shallow bow. His voice was crisp and devoid of warmth.

"Welcome, Miss Osborne."

Augustina's eyes flickered. He called her Osborne. The surname she used in the slums, not Hogan. Charles's intelligence network had already stripped away her fake identity. He didn't recognize her as a Hogan.

She nodded calmly and handed her cheap bag to a waiting footman.

Albright led her through the massive, vaulted foyer. Her footsteps echoed loudly against the marble floors.

The walls were lined with dark, abstract oil paintings. The air smelled strongly of cold cedarwood and old paper.

She was led to a guest room at the far end of the second-floor hallway. Not the master suite.

"The Master is currently handling overseas affairs," Albright informed her, standing in the doorway. "He will not be receiving you for a few days."

Albright's eyes hardened slightly. "You are permitted in your room and the first-floor dining hall. The West Wing and the basement are strictly forbidden. Do not wander."

Without waiting for a response, Albright turned and pulled the heavy door shut.

Augustina looked around the room. It was ten times the size of her attic at the Hogan estate, but it felt like an icebox.

She walked over to the window. Down in the courtyard, men in black tactical gear were patrolling with massive Dobermans.

A slow, determined smile touched her lips. She was exactly where she needed to be.