His Beautiful Lie : When Death Was a Mercy, He Gave Me Hell Instead
"I told you to stay away from me."
But you didn't listen. And now Dante Hawthorne is looking at you like you're the first thing he's ever wanted that he can't just take.
Five years ago, Vivienne Ashford sold herself to save her family from financial ruin. The deal was simple: marry the dying heir to the Hawthorne fortune, play the devoted wife in public, live separate lives in private. No love. No touch. Just a contract.
Dante Hawthorne was supposed to be her salvation—a wheelchair-bound billionaire with months to live, too weak to even leave his bed. She would inherit when he died. Her family would be saved. Everyone wins.
Except Dante didn't die.
For five years, Vivienne has endured her stepsister Delilah's cruelty at the family company, suffered her stepmother's poisonous words, watched her inheritance drained by the family that sold her. She's the "gold-digger" married to a dying man, the joke of high society, the charity case living in a gilded cage.
When Delilah publicly humiliates her at work for the final time, calling her a fraud and a whore in front of the entire board, Vivienne breaks. Three days later, Delilah is found dead.
The news says the killer was the Ghost—Ashford City's most feared mafia boss. A man no one has ever seen. A man who leaves no witnesses. A myth wrapped in blood and terror.
Vivienne is watching the press conference when something catches her eye. A silhouette in the background. A familiar tilt of the head. The way he holds himself.
Wait.
Her breath stops.
Why does he look like—
No. It can't be.
She rushes home to the Hawthorne Estate, to the medical wing where her husband has been confined for five years. The wheelchair is empty. The bedroom door is unlocked.
And Dante Hawthorne is standing.
Not dying. Not weak.
Standing in a perfectly tailored suit, power radiating from every inch of his six-foot-three frame, dark eyes burning with an intensity that steals her breath.
"Hello, wife," he says, his voice no longer rasping and broken but smooth as sin and sharp as a blade. "Did you miss me?"
The man she married was a lie. The dying patient was a mask. Her husband is the monster the city fears—and he's been watching her. Waiting for her. Protecting her.
Killing for her.
"You're... you're him," Vivienne whispers, backing away. "The Ghost. You're—"
"Yours," Dante finishes, stepping closer. "I've always been yours, Vivienne. From the moment you signed that contract. From the moment you chose to save your family instead of running. Did you really think I'd let anyone hurt you?"
Delilah was just the beginning. Dante Hawthorne is done hiding. He's done watching his wife suffer while he played the invalid. He's done pretending he doesn't own every breath she takes.
The contract said five years. Time's up.
Now he wants his wedding night. His wife in his bed. His ring on her finger to mean something real.