The Mortician's Contract Marriage

precision, its sterile steel glinting under the cold surgic

de's Mortuary, Geneva worked to erase the trauma, to give her a final peace the world had denied her. Her movements were e

hands at her sides. Then she bowed-a slow, deep bow from the waist, the kind of revere

of a rubber-tipped cane on lin

and had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go. He was leaning his stooped frame against the doorjamb. His eyes, visible even

m, absorbed in her task. She began to suture a d

stones grinding together. "Just a remind

ing. Then, the rhythm resumed, seamless. She knew exactly wh

mured. "The weddi

mournful beat. "Geneva. Are you sure about this? Marrying Preston Hayes. I've watched you grow up in th

el with the forceps beside it. Only then did she strip off her blood-flecked gloves and walk to the deep basin sink. The rush

he sink. Pale skin, dark, serious eyes. A face tha

It's my 'responsibility' as a Hayes." She paused, her jaw tighten

s Catherine Hayes-her new guardian, Preston's mother, a woman who wore designer dresses like armor and smiled only when it served her. Catherine's perfectly manicured hand rested on the girl's shoulder, a gesture that looked like affection but felt lik

k her parents. Cancer took her grandfather a year later. In the span of thirteen

onounced. He offered her a clean, white tow

the towel grounding her. "For me, there's

e the trust fund my grandfather left me." The Graham fortune-once one of the largest in the city-had been sealed in a trust after her grandfather's death. She had been seventeen, too

pity, but with something heavier-regret. "That fund," he sa

ach, but she kept her face a p

isn't right. Just know this: you are holding cards you don't even know you have

gently pulled the white sheet ove

nto her simple jeans and sweater, she was r

't it?" Julian called after her. "The m

smile touching her lips. "The pe

ipped her long, dark hair across her face. Above, a sl

hing. "You're not going to believe this. Someone just sent me a voice memo from Bar Sovereign tonight. Preston is there

he text. Geneva pressed play,

mean, what's she going to do, embalm me in my sleep? The guys are right-she probably smells like formaldehyde..."

azed.She felt nothing for the engagement. No excitem

w of the mortuary's gothic architecture. It was a wor

iver's seat, another te

te tomorrow. And w

replying, she tossed the phone onto the

pulled onto the empty street, she didn't turn toward her ap

the rearview mirror, we