Zara Geller, young mistress of the Geller Empire, moved down the carpeted hall of the Riverside Sea Face Hotel, her timid secretary, Vincent Macoy, following her like a quiet shadow at her back. The text message still burned in her mind; a text popped up, and it was a location, a grainy photo of her fiancé half-dressed with a woman whose silhouette she recognized too well. Her father's choice for her future.
Her pulse drummed in her ears. What if it's true?
"Wait outside," she told Vincent when they reached the door.
It wasn't locked. The latch gave with a soft click, and she stepped inside. The scent of expensive cologne clung to the air, undercut by something warmer and heavier. Her gaze dropped, clothes scattered across the floor in a careless trail: a shirt, a jacket, a dress… panties… boxers.
Then came the sounds. Moans. Groans. Voices she knew.
Zara pushed the bedroom door an inch. Her fiancé, Mason Rumphton, was buried by her stepsister Kathy.
"You think she'll be furious when she finds out you belong to me?" Kathy panted.
"Stop ruining my mood, Kathy," Mason grunted. "Don't talk about that plain, limping nerd. You know I can't stand her."
Zara didn't hear the rest; her hand was already curled into a fist.
Minutes later, when they finally left the bed, laughter still clinging to them, they froze.
A figure sat on the sofa, with another standing at her side.
The light reflected off Vincent's glasses, hiding his eyes. Zara's face was unreadable.
"Zara…?" Kathy whispered, tears already forming.
"I can explain…"
"Don't blame Kathy for this," Mason cut in, pulling her behind him. The protective gesture didn't go unnoticed.
Zara's lips curved, but not in amusement. "You're both scum."
"What's with that smirk?" Mason snapped, gathering their clothes and thrusting them at Kathy. "Go change."
"Our marriage is null," Zara said, rising. She walked past them, Vincent falling into step behind her.
"Zara, wait…" Mason followed into the hall, but Kathy clung to his arm. "Please, don't leave me. She'll do something to me."
He looked at her, nodding slowly. 'Tomorrow. I'll talk to Zara tomorrow. She can't end this proposal—I need to marry her.'
In the car, Zara stared out the window, her reflection caught in the passing streetlights. She'd known Kathy's nature, as mother and daughter, cunning. And Mason's betrayal was predictable. The disappointment lay deeper, in the constant scheming of her half-siblings, Kathy and Kenneth alike.
"What do we do now, Madam?" Vincent asked from behind the wheel, stealing a glance at her profile before returning his eyes to the road.
Her face was unreadable. Years had burned away most of her softness—losing her mother, then her father in all but name. Not long after Avery Geller's death, John Geller had brought Carnelin into their home. Kathy and Kenneth, her half-siblings, came with her—a matched set of twins who quickly became the apples of their father's eye.
John was an honest man, but the Geller Empire had belonged to Avery, and by that right, to Zara. His condition was simple: she must marry before claiming it. Mason Rumphton had been his choice.
Once, in the privacy of a strained conversation, she'd remarked that if marriage was just a transaction, she might as well marry her secretary. The words had been half a jab, half a thought, but Vincent Macoy had gone still, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks.
Vincent was tall—six feet, with a well-chiseled face—but never a man who drew her in. Timid in manner and precise in his work, he was the kind who spoke flawlessly in boardrooms but fidgeted with his fingers when alone with her, his ears turning red. She'd taken it for shyness, maybe admiration.
The idea took root.
A contract marriage could be the shield she needed. Her maternal grandmother, Granny Macbeth, had made it clear: all of Avery's fortune was hers, but she had to act before her stepmother interfered. Time was running out.
She offered Vincent the proposal, "Would you marry me, Mr. Macoy?"
Vincent was surprised. It was like he waited for such a moment, his dream moment.
Giving him half a day to consider. He didn't need it. "I'm ready," he said immediately, fingers twisting in his lap. The speed of it caught her off guard. Three years, the contract stated. Long enough for her to secure her inheritance. Long enough, perhaps, for him to hope she might fall in love.
On the day of the wedding,
Zara Geller stood at the start of the aisle, the satin runner stretching toward an empty space where her groom should have been hours ago.
Vincent adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit, the fabric crisp against his skin. For once, his hair was combed neatly, wax catching the light—no glasses, no tousled fringe to hide behind. In the mirror that morning, he had almost startled himself. Handsome. Presentable. Worthy.
And he couldn't stop smiling. Today wasn't just a contract. Today was his chance. His vow was silent but absolute: he would make Zara love him. No matter the terms she had set, no matter her reasons—he would earn her heart.
He carried that vow with him as he drove toward the estate, the venue nestled near her family's farm. The road stretched open ahead, sunlight flickering through the trees. For the first time in years, his chest felt light.
Then—impact.
A deafening crash split the air as a consignment truck veered into his lane. Metal screamed against metal, the world tilting violently. His car spun, rolled, and then slammed onto its side with a bone-jarring thud.
Glass rained down like shards of ice. Smoke curled from the crumpled hood.
Vincent dragged himself through the shattered window, hands slick with blood, his body trembling from shock. The vow he'd carried just moments ago now tasted bitter, slipping away as crimson dripped onto the asphalt.
It had been over an hour, and Vincent had not arrived.
On the far side of the city, he lay sprawled in a pool of blood, glass glittering around him like ice. His chest rose shallowly, barely.
A hiss escaped his lips as he stirred, head pounding. The world around him…was still. Too still. Colors bled at the edges of his vision. He pushed himself upright, breath ragged.
"My specs…" He groped blindly at the ground, heart hammering. His fingers touched leather instead. A shoe.
A hoarse voice rumbled above him.
"I thought you'd be pulp by now."
Vincent's head jerked up. A tall figure loomed, faceless, holding his spectacles between two long fingers.
He snatched them back, wiped them against his suit, and shoved them onto his nose—only to wish he hadn't. What stared back at him was worse than nothing. A man with no face, only smooth skin where eyes, nose, and mouth should have been.
"Wh—what are you?" His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
The figure chuckled, voice curling around the silence like smoke.
"Dorian Cross. And you, Vincent Macoy, have already left the world of the living."
Vincent's blood froze. He turned, staring at the twisted wreck of his car. His own body lay broken beside it.
"No…" he whispered. "No, I'm not—"
"Dead," Dorian finished for him, stepping closer. "But lucky. Not everyone gets this moment. The chance to choose."
His palms opened, faint lights glowing in each—crimson in the right, gold in the left.
"Death," he said, nodding to the red. "Or dream."
Vincent's trembling hand hovered, eyes darting from one light to the other. Dream. If there was the smallest chance—
He clenched his fist. "I choose dream. To marry Zara. To live with her."
Dorian's laugh was soft, unnervingly pleased. "Good boy. But nothing comes without a price."
Vincent's heart dropped. "What price?"
"The body will be yours. The wish is yours. But I"—Dorian leaned in, featureless face inches from his— "will hold the reins."
Rage flared, shocking Vincent himself. He grabbed Dorian's collar, shoving him back. "What do you mean?"
Dorian only flicked a finger against his forehead. Vincent collapsed, bodiless, watching from the void.
"Sit back and enjoy the show," Dorian said, snapping his fingers.
On the roadside, the corpse that was Vincent stood. Straightened its suit. Smiled. Then slipped behind the wheel as though nothing had happened.
Vincent screamed, but no sound left his throat. He could only watch his body drive toward the wedding—his vow alive, but no longer his to claim.