Return Of The Billionaire's Ghost Wife

ter wa

wa

owning. She jerked upright, water sloshing violently over the rim

sn't d

't in th

bmerged in water that was unnaturally warm and carried a strange, cloying scent she didn't recogn

ale skin. Perf

e last thing she remembered was the screaming. The metal tearing. The impossible cold

ying. She wa

luxury bathroom with brass fixtures and marble walls that probably cost more than her parents' house-swam in her vision.

oor o

frame, backlit by light from somewhere beyond. The figure was tall. Broad-shouldere

or

hated how small she s

dn't

behind him, sealing them in. Isadora couldn't see his face, not yet, but she could fe

owel. Her fingers b

osed around

s against her pulse when they lay in bed talking about nothing. This hand was a vise, yanking her forwa

hit the ma

d found her throat-not squeezing, not yet, but resting there with terrif

t me,"

e

didn't k

times. But everything else was wrong. His eyes, those blue eyes that used to crinkle when he l

sent

d smoke, stripped of an

ning just enough to remind her who control

lau

ce. It was dry, humorless, scrapin

, his body pinning her to the wall. "Flight 815. I identified her personal effects myself.

een

ead, desperate for something to anchor her, and found it in the mirror across

ty-eight, maybe twenty-nine. No gray at the temples. No lin

ouching her own cheek. The wom

er did the work-Reyes family? Kerrs?-they got creative. Memory implants, too, judging by the performance." His thumb trace

ing about." Her voice shook. S

to her throat, pressure building slowly

this. From looking into her husband's eyes and seeing nothing. No recognition. No love. Just calc

her fingers clawing at his wrist, useless against

nce is you

laries in his eyes, the tremor in his jaw that he couldn't quite control. He was ho

d, his thumb finding her pulse point, feeling it fl

between them.

her body go limp against the wall, her only movement the desperate rise

going

recognized the view of Central Park through the frosted window now-in t

sted like co

ing. Weighing her value against the risk of keeping her alive, of whatev

osed h

wa