The Disposable Bride's Deadly Secret Identity

Adrienne POV

The silence of the Romero Estate was a heavy, suffocating thing, but I didn't have to wait long for it to break.

The flimsy lock on my door splintered with a sharp crack. Cammie stumbled into the sparse room, kicking the door shut behind her. She reeked of cheap vodka and bitter, festering envy. In one hand, she clutched a half-empty bottle; in the other, the silver blade of a folding razor glinted under the dim overhead bulb.

"Think you're so special, trailer trash?" Cammie slurred, her eyes wild as she stalked toward me. "Marrying the Ghost. You're taking what should have been mine."

I shrank back against the squeaky iron bed, letting my breathing turn shallow and erratic. "Cammie, please. You said he's a monster."

"He is," she sneered, raising the razor. "Which is why I need to leave a little souvenir on that pretty face of yours. Just so he doesn't forget whose sloppy seconds you are."

She lunged.

To an untrained eye, I was a terrified girl tripping over her own feet in a desperate bid to escape. In reality, my mind processed the trajectory of the blade in a fraction of a second. I shifted my weight, letting the razor slice through empty air a millimeter from my cheek, and allowed my momentum to carry me backward. I tumbled through the open doorway of the adjoining bathroom, landing hard on the wet, moldy tiles.

Cammie followed, laughing maniacally. The cramped space smelled of mildew and rust. She swung the blade again, aiming blindly for my neck.

I let out a pathetic, ear-piercing shriek, throwing my hands up as if to shield myself. My fingers locked around her wrist. I applied a precise, agonizing pressure to the nerve cluster just below her palm and violently jerked her arm downward. Her wrist smashed against the cracked porcelain of the sink.

Cammie screamed as her fingers went numb, the razor clattering harmlessly to the floor.

Before she could recover, I grabbed the front of her shirt, using her own off-balance momentum to drag us both over the edge of the old cast-iron bathtub. We crashed into the tub in a tangle of limbs. I thrashed wildly, making it look like a chaotic struggle for my life, while subtly pinning her head near the running faucet, letting the cold water splash over her face.

"Mom!" Cammie gurgled, choking on the water. "Mom, help!"

Right on cue, heavy footsteps pounded into the bedroom. Brenda burst into the bathroom, her face pale with panic.

The moment I saw her, I released Cammie and scrambled backward against the cold porcelain, pulling my knees to my chest. I began to sob violently, my whole body shaking.

"She—she tried to cut me!" I stammered, pointing a trembling finger at the razor on the floor. "She's drunk!"

Brenda didn't even glance at the weapon. She saw her precious daughter soaking wet, gasping for air in the tub, and her maternal instincts—twisted as they were—took over. She hauled Cammie up, cooing softly to her, before turning her furious gaze on me.

Brenda lunged forward, grabbing me by the collar of the ragged dress.

*Smack.*

The slap was explosive. Her heavy diamond ring bit deeply into my cheekbone, the force of the blow snapping my head to the side. The metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth.

"Listen to me, you little rat," Brenda hissed, her face inches from mine, her breath hot and foul. "You better behave. You are a piece of merchandise, nothing more. If you pull a stunt like this again, I swear to God, the Romeros will receive a corpse."

I kept my eyes wide, letting fresh tears spill over my lashes as I nodded frantically. "I'm sorry," I whispered, my voice cracking. "Please."

Satisfied that she had put the stray dog back in its place, Brenda wrapped an arm around Cammie and guided her out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind them.

The click of the latch echoed in the damp room.

My tears stopped instantly. The trembling vanished, replaced by the cold, steady rhythm of my training. I slowly stood up and walked over to the cracked mirror above the sink.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. A vicious, dark purple bruise was already blooming across my cheekbone, stark against my pale skin. It throbbed painfully, but I didn't flinch.

I tilted my head, examining the mark under the harsh light. It was a masterpiece of victimization. Tomorrow morning, when the Romero family came to inspect their new property, they wouldn't see a threat. They would see a broken, battered girl, entirely at their mercy.