Chapter 5: The Public Wife

Elara lay in Isabella's bed, staring at the ceiling, Julian's words looping in her skull like a song she couldn't turn off.

Ask Alexander what really happened the night she disappeared. And when he lies to you, come find me.

Lie. He didn't say if he lies. He said when.

And the way Julian had spoken about Isabella—like she was already a memory—meant he knew she was gone. Not just missing. Gone. And he knew Elara wasn't her.

But he hadn't exposed her. He'd offered help.

Don't trust the brother.

Isabella's warning was burned into her mind. But Isabella had also written don't trust the husband. Which meant both brothers were dangerous. Both had secrets. And Elara was trapped between them with nothing but a dead woman's journal and a body that betrayed her every time Alexander touched it.

She pressed her thighs together under the sheets. Even now, just thinking about what he'd done to her—what she'd let him do—made heat pool low in her belly.

I'm getting wet remembering being used.

The shame should have crushed her. Instead, it sharpened something. She'd survived foster care by learning to read people, by knowing when to fight and when to submit. Alexander thought he'd broken her. Julian thought he could manipulate her.

They were both wrong.

She wasn't Isabella. She wasn't a victim. She was a survivor. And survivors watched, waited, and struck when no one expected it.

But first, she had to play the part.

---

Morning came too fast.

Mrs. Windsor appeared at seven with a breakfast tray and a garment bag. "Mr. Blackwood expects you downstairs at nine. You'll be accompanying him to the Ashford Foundation luncheon." She laid the bag across the foot of the bed. "Wear this. He prefers you in red for public appearances."

Elara sat up, pushing hair from her face. "Does he have a manual somewhere? How to Dress Your Replacement Wife? I'd like to study it."

Mrs. Windsor's expression didn't flicker. "Mrs. Isabella made similar jokes. Mr. Blackwood didn't find them amusing then. He won't now."

She left.

Elara ate slowly, her mind racing. A public appearance. Her first real test as Isabella Blackwood. If she failed, Alexander would make her pay. If she succeeded, she bought herself more time to figure out who was lying.

The dress was blood-red, fitted, with a neckline that plunged dangerously low. She stared at herself in the mirror after putting it on. The woman looking back was a stranger. Poised. Elegant. Expensive.

This is what Isabella looked like every day.

She touched the birthmark behind her ear. The same mark Isabella had. The only proof that they were connected by blood. And the reason she was trapped in this gilded nightmare.

---

Alexander was waiting in the foyer.

He wore a charcoal suit. His eyes swept over her as she descended the staircase, and something flickered in them—approval, maybe. Or possession. With him, she couldn't tell the difference.

"You'll do."

Two words. That was all she got. But the way his gaze lingered on the neckline, on the curve of her hips, told her more than words could.

"Let's go over the rules." He stepped closer, adjusting a strand of her hair that didn't need adjusting. "You stay by my side unless I tell you otherwise. You smile when I smile. You laugh when I laugh. If someone asks about your 'accident' or your 'memory,' you say you're still recovering and change the subject. Under no circumstances do you speak to Julian. If he approaches, you find me immediately."

"Julian will be there?"

"He's a Blackwood. He's always there." His jaw tightened. "Which is why you don't leave my sight. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

The words came automatically now. She hated how natural they felt.

His hand cupped her chin, tilting her face up. "You're learning. Good. But there's one more thing."

His thumb brushed her lower lip. Parted them slightly.

"Isabella had a way of looking at me in public. Adoring. Devoted. Like I was the only man in the room." His eyes darkened. "You're going to practice that look. Now."

She met his gaze and tried to summon adoration. All she felt was a confusing tangle of fear, resentment, and unwanted desire.

"Not good enough." His hand dropped to her hip, pulling her against him. "Try again. Think about last night. Think about what I made you feel."

Heat flooded her cheeks. Her body remembered even when her mind fought it. The way he'd commanded her. The way she'd shattered beneath him.

Her eyes softened. Her lips parted slightly.

"There." His voice was rough. "That's the look. Hold it. Remember it. You'll wear it all afternoon."

He released her and walked toward the door without looking back.

Elara stood frozen, her body humming, her mind screaming.

He's training me like a dog. And I'm letting him.

She followed him out the door.

---

The luncheon was held at a hotel ballroom that glittered with crystal and old money.

Elara stayed glued to Alexander's side, her hand resting on his arm, her face arranged into that soft, adoring expression he'd demanded. She smiled when he smiled. Laughed when he laughed. Nodded along to conversations about mergers and foundations and people she'd never heard of.

No one suspected a thing.

"You look stunning, Isabella." A silver-haired woman in pearls grasped her hand. "I was so worried after the accident. But you're glowing. Marriage agrees with you."

Elara squeezed her hand back. "Thank you. I'm... still recovering. But Alexander has been wonderful."

The words tasted like ash. Wonderful. The man who'd forced her into this life, who used her body like a possession, who compared her to a dead woman while he fucked her—wonderful.

But the woman beamed and moved on, and Elara kept smiling.

Across the room, she spotted Julian.

He was watching her. His glass raised slightly in a silent toast. His smile was knowing, intimate, like they shared a secret.

Don't be alone with him.

She looked away. Found Alexander deep in conversation with a gray-haired man. His hand rested on her lower back—possessive, grounding. She leaned into it without thinking.

When did his touch start feeling like safety instead of a cage?

The thought terrified her.

---

They stayed for three hours.

By the time the car pulled up to the mansion, Elara's face ached from smiling. She'd shaken hands with forty strangers, deflected five questions about the accident, and avoided Julian twice. She was exhausted in a way that scrubbing toilets had never made her feel.

"You performed well." Alexander's voice was neutral as they walked inside. "Better than expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

Of course it was.

He stopped in the foyer, turning to face her. Mrs. Windsor had disappeared. The house was quiet. They were alone.

"You were distracted at the end. When Julian looked at you."

Elara's heart skipped. "I didn't speak to him. I did what you said."

"I know. But you saw him. And your face changed." He stepped closer. "What did he say to you yesterday?"

"Nothing. He just... welcomed me home."

"Liar."

The word was soft. Not angry. Just certain.

His hand came up and wrapped around her throat. Not squeezing. Just resting there, a reminder of how easily he could.

"I told you not to be alone with him. I told you he's dangerous. And yet you let him corner you in Isabella's study, alone, with the door closed. Mrs. Windsor told me she saw him enter the study few minutes after you did yesterday." His thumb stroked her pulse point. "What did he say?"

Elara's breath came shallow. Her body was a traitor—even now, with his hand on her throat, heat was pooling between her legs.

"He said I should ask you what happened the night she disappeared."

Alexander went very still.

"And what do you think?" His voice was quiet. "Do you believe him?"

"I don't know what to believe."

His grip tightened slightly. "Let me make it simple for you. Julian is obsessed with things that don't belong to him. He wanted Isabella. She rejected him. He's never forgiven her—or me—for it. Whatever he told you is designed to make you doubt me. To turn you against me. To take you for himself."

His thumb traced her jaw.

"But you're not Isabella. You're mine. And I don't share."

He kissed her.

It wasn't gentle. It was claiming. Punishing. His tongue pushed past her lips, demanding entry, and she gave it to him. Her hands fisted in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer, and a low sound escaped her throat—half protest, half plea.

He swallowed it.

His other hand slid down her back, pressing her hips against his. She could feel him, hard and insistent through the fine wool of his trousers, and her body answered with a rush of wet heat between her thighs.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. "Upstairs. Now."

She went.

---

The bedroom door slammed behind them.

He didn't give her time to think. His hands were on her immediately, spinning her around, pressing her front against the door. His body caged hers from behind. She could feel every inch of him—the hard planes of his chest, the thick ridge of his arousal against her lower back.

"You disobeyed me." His voice was low, rough, right against her ear. "I told you not to be alone with him."

His fingers found the zipper of the red dress. Dragged it down slowly, torturously, exposing her spine inch by inch. He yanked the dress down. It pooled at her feet, leaving her in nothing but a black lace thong and heels. The cool air hit her bare skin, making her nipples tighten painfully. "You're mine. Your body is mine. No one touches what's mine."

His hand slid around her waist, fingers playing across her stomach. So close to where she ached.

"Say it."

"I'm yours." The words came out breathless. Desperate. She hated how true they felt.

"Louder."

"I'm yours, sir."

"Good girl."

His hand dipped lower. Brushed the lace between her thighs. She gasped, her hips bucking forward into his touch.

"You're soaked." There was satisfaction in his voice. Dark and male. "You've been wet since I put my hand on your throat downstairs, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir."

His fingers pushed the lace aside. Stroked through her folds, spreading her wetness. She whimpered, her forehead pressing against the door. He circled her clit once, twice—feather-light, not nearly enough.

"Please." She didn't know what she was begging for. More. Everything. Him.

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

He made a sound—half groan, half growl. His fingers left her, leaving her empty and aching, and she heard the rustle of fabric as he freed himself from his trousers. Then his hands were on her hips, lifting her slightly, positioning her.

"Look at you." His voice was ragged. "Bent over for me like a good little whore. Isabella loved this. Being taken against the door like she couldn't wait to get to the bed."

He thrust into her in one brutal motion.

She cried out, her palms flat against the door, her body stretching to accommodate him. He was thick and hard and relentless, filling her completely. He didn't give her time to adjust. Just started moving, deep and rough, each thrust pushing her higher against the wood.

"Isabella would beg." His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. "She'd beg me to go harder, faster. She'd tell me how good I felt inside her. How no one else had ever filled her like I did."

Elara's nails scraped against the door. "I'm not Isabella."

"I know." He thrust deeper, hitting a spot that made her vision blur. "That's what makes you dangerous."

His rhythm increased. Harder. Faster. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, obscene and perfect. His free hand found her clit, rubbing in tight circles that matched his thrusts. She was climbing, spiraling, losing herself in the overwhelming sensation of being taken, owned, consumed.

"Come for me." His voice was a command, not a request. "Now."

Her body obeyed.

The orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave. She screamed—his name, she thought, or maybe just a sound—and her inner walls clenched around him, pulling him deeper, milking him. He groaned, his hips stuttering, and then he was coming too, spilling inside her with a guttural sound that was almost her name.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. He stayed buried inside her, his forehead pressed to her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. Her legs were shaking. She wasn't sure she could stand without his hands holding her up.

Finally, he pulled out. She felt the loss like a physical ache.

"Bed." His voice was rough. "Now."

She walked to the bed on unsteady legs. He followed, shedding the rest of his clothes. She lay back against the sheets, still trembling, still sensitive, and watched as he climbed over her.

"I'm not done with you."

His mouth found her breast. He sucked hard, teeth grazing her nipple, and she arched off the bed with a cry. Her body was still tingling from the first orgasm, oversensitive and hungry all at once.

"Alexander—"

"You can give me more." His hand slid between her thighs again, finding her wet and swollen. "You will give me more."

He pushed two fingers inside her. Curled them. Her hips jerked, a broken moan escaping her lips. He worked her slowly, deliberately, watching her face as she fell apart beneath his touch.

"You're so responsive." His thumb found her clit, pressing down. "Isabella took longer. She needed more. But you—" He added a third finger, stretching her. "You're ready for me again already."

He withdrew his fingers. Positioned himself at her entrance. Pushed inside in one slow, agonizing thrust.

This time was different. Slower. Deeper. He moved like he was savoring her, each stroke deliberate, each thrust hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. His forehead pressed to hers. His eyes were open, watching her, seeing her.

"Say my name."

"Alexander."

"Again."

"Alexander—oh God—"

He kissed her. Swallowed her cries. His hips rolled in a rhythm that built and built until she was clawing at his back, her legs wrapped around his waist, her whole body tightening toward something she knew would shatter her completely.

"Come with me." His voice was strained. "Now, Elara. Now."

She shattered.

He followed a heartbeat later, burying his face in her neck, his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her for the second time.

---

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets. His hand traced lazy circles on her hip. She stared at the ceiling, her mind blank, her body utterly spent. Every muscle ached. Between her thighs, she could feel the evidence of what he'd done—wet and warm and shamefully satisfying.

"Julian is lying," Alexander said quietly. "Whatever he told you, whatever he promises—it's a trap. He wants to destroy me. He'll use you to do it."

Elara turned her head to look at him. In the dim light, he looked almost human. Almost vulnerable.

"How do I know you're not lying too?"

He held her gaze for a long moment.

"You don't. That's the problem with this family. No one tells the whole truth." He sat up, reaching for his clothes. "But I'll tell you this. The night Isabella disappeared, I wasn't with her. I was cleaning up a mess Julian made. A mess that would have destroyed us all. And by the time I got home, she was gone."

He stood, pulling on his shirt.

"Julian knows more about that night than he admits. If you want the truth, don't ask him. Find Viktor."

The name hit her like ice.

Trust no one but Viktor.

Alexander walked to the door. Paused.

"Viktor was Isabella's private investigator. She hired him before she disappeared. If anyone knows what really happened, it's him." His hand tightened on the doorframe. "But be careful. Whoever killed Isabella is still out there. And if they find out you're looking..."

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

The door clicked shut.

Elara lay alone in the dark, her heart pounding.

Viktor.

The name from the journal. The one person Isabella trusted. And now Alexander was pointing her toward him too.

But was he helping her—or leading her into a trap?

She didn't know. She couldn't trust anyone.

But she had to find out the truth. Even if it killed her.