Unwanted Wife: Dancing With The Blackwell Devil

The wind whipped Brittny Graves's hair into a blonde frenzy, stinging her eyes, but she didn't care. She threw her head back and screamed a laugh into the rushing air. "Faster, Craig! Faster!" The red convertible tore down the highway, a blood-colored streak against the grey asphalt. The city skyline was shrinking in the rearview mirror, and with it, the suffocating weight of the Blackwell name. Craig Mooney gripped the steering wheel until his hands cramped. He wasn't laughing. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, despite the chill of the wind. "Are you sure about this, Brittny?" he shouted over the roar of the engine. "If the Blackwells find us..." "They won't!" Brittny reached over, her manicured fingers digging into his shoulder. Her eyes were wide, feverish. "I told you, Craig. I know." She tapped her temple. "I saw it. I lived it. I saw you on that podium, the confetti falling like snow, the crowds screaming your name. They called you High Chancellor, Craig. Not him. You." Craig glanced at her, his fear warring with his ego. He was a man who lived on validation, and Brittny was feeding him a banquet. "And Elliot?" he asked, his voice trembling on the name. "Gone," Brittny spat, the word tasting like venom. "A footnote. Disgraced and dead within the year. I saw his motorcade burn on the interstate, Craig. Why would I chain myself to a ghost when I can build a kingdom with a king?" Craig looked back at the road. The fear in his gut began to recede, replaced by the intoxicating heat of ambition. He pressed his foot down. The speedometer climbed. "A king," he muttered. "I like the sound of that." Back at the Graves estate, the air in the library was stale, recycled through vents that hadn't been cleaned in years. Grand Dame Graves sat behind the mahogany desk, staring at the tablet screen. The graph line of the Graves Group stock was already twitching downward. Rumors traveled faster than light. "We have to do it," Mistress Yun hissed. She was pacing, her heels sinking into the plush carpet. "It's the only way." "She's a Frederick," the Grand Dame muttered, rubbing her temples. "The Blackwells hate the Fredericks. It's an insult." "It's a body!" Mistress Yun slammed her hand on the desk. "They want a connection to the Graves political influence. Does it matter which daughter provides it?" "Brooke is... difficult," Lord Graves said from the corner. He looked like a man waiting for a firing squad. "She's not pliable like Brittny." "She's broke," Mistress Yun countered. She pulled a file from her bag and slapped it onto the desk. "Her mother's trust fund. The one we've been... managing." The Grand Dame's eyes snapped to the file. Greed, sharp and sudden, cut through her anxiety. "If she marries into the Blackwell family," Mistress Yun whispered, leaning in, "she triggers the Frederick abandonment clause. A ridiculous stipulation her mother insisted on, meant to keep her away from families like ours. The trust reverts to her guardians. To us. We keep the capital. We save the company." The Grand Dame ran a finger over the leather cover of the file. The numbers inside were the only thing she loved more than her reputation. "Get her," the old woman said. In the rose garden, Brooke knelt in the dirt. She held a pair of rusted shears. Snip. A perfect red rose fell to the ground. Snip. Another one. She wasn't arranging them. She was beheading them. In her left ear, a small diamond stud pressed against her cartilage. It wasn't jewelry. It was a bone-conduction receiver, vibrating with the voices from the library. We keep the trust. We keep the capital... Brooke didn't stop snipping. Her expression didn't change. But inside, a cold fire ignited. They weren't just selling her. They were robbing her. Again. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Her thumb hovered over a contact saved only as "Accountant." She typed: The fish have bitten. Execute Protocol 4. Prepare the transfer documents. She hit send. Then, she felt it. A vibration in the ground. Low at first, like a distant subway train, then growing, swelling, shaking the pebbles around her knees. It wasn't thunder. Brooke stood up, brushing the dirt from her black dress. She looked toward the main gate, a quarter-mile down the driveway. The radio on the hip of a nearby gardener crackled. "Main gate! They're not slowing down! Repeat, the lead vehicle is not slowing down!" Brooke pocketed her phone. She picked up the shears. "Showtime," she whispered. CRASH. The sound was apocalyptic. The wrought-iron gates of the Graves estate, which had stood for a century, shrieked as they were torn from their hinges. Twisted metal flew through the air. A black, armored SUV, massive and ugly as a tank, plowed through the debris without even tapping its brakes. Behind it, three more vehicles followed in a V-formation. Brooke walked up the steps to the main porch. The front doors burst open behind her. The Grand Dame and Mistress Yun stumbled out, clutching each other. "What is that?" Mistress Yun shrieked. "Call the police!" "That is the police," Brooke said calmly, not looking back. "Or at least, the people who pay them." The convoy screeched to a halt at the foot of the stairs. Dust billowed up, coating the pristine white roses in grey grit. The engines cut. Silence slammed back into the courtyard, heavier than the noise. Brooke stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at the black tinted windows of the lead car. She didn't flinch. She tightened her grip on the shears hidden in the folds of her dress. She wasn't waiting for a groom. She was waiting for a war.