อ้อนรักมาเฟียแสนร้าย

E L A R A

"Elara, darling, wake up." I groaned as I pulled my silk pillow over my head, blocking out my mother's voice and the morning sunlight slipping through my bedroom windows.

"Leave me alone, Mother. It's not even morning yet." I said, my voice groggy.

"It's nine thirty, and we have your final dress fitting set for eleven," mother said, her heels clicking against the hardwood floor as she crossed my bedroom.

"You can't be late. Senator Blackwell's mother will be there as well."

Senator Blackwell.

My future husband.

Ugh

The words tasted like ash in my own head.

I sat up reluctantly rubbing my eyes.

My mother stood at the edge of my bed, perfectly put together as always, cream Chanel suit, not a hair out of place, diamonds glittering on her neck.

At fifty-two, she was still beautiful, but there was something about her beauty.

Something I cannot really place, maybe broken, that she tries to hide behind designer labels and fake smiles.

"Mother, about the wedding—"

"No." She held up one perfectly manicured hand.

"We're not having this conversation again. Your father has made his decision. The merger with the Blackwell family will secure the Vance empire for generations. You're doing this, Elara. End of discussion." She said with finality in her voice.

I wanted to scream, to throw something, to remind her that I was twenty-seven years old, not some damsel in distress to be sold off to the highest bidder at an auction full of old dudes.

But I'd learned years ago that arguing with my mother, Vivienne Vance was like arguing with a marble statue, beautiful, cold, and extremely immovable.

"Fine," I said, throwing off my duvet. "I'll be ready in an hour." I added.

"Thirty minutes," she corrected. "And wear something appropriate. The Blackwells have standards."

She left, closing the door with a soft click that instead felt like a prison cell locking.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror.

My dark auburn hair caught in a tangled mess, green eyes still heavy with sleep, ring, my grandmother's emerald ring, the only piece of jewelry I actually cared about glinting on my right hand.

"You're really going to do this?" I asked my reflection. "Marry a man old enough to be your father because Daddy says so?"

My reflection had no answer.

I showered quickly, going through the motions like I was on autopilot. This was my life now, had been for the past three months since Father announced my engagement to Senator Lawrence Blackwell at a family dinner, right between the soup course and the main dish, like I was just another item on the menu.

"Elara will marry Senator Blackwell in October," he'd said, cutting into his steak. "It's already arranged."

I had been too shocked to argue then. Too programmed to obey, but that was three months ago.

Now, as I pulled on a pale blue dress that Mother would approve of, I felt something shift inside me, a small crack in the perfect daughter facade I'd been maintaining for twenty-seven years.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A reminder I'd set for myself last week,

Research Day. 10:00 AM. Don't chicken out.

I'd been putting this off for weeks, telling myself I was being paranoid, that my instincts about Senator Blackwell were wrong, but last week, at a charity luncheon, I'd overheard two society matrons whispering about him, about his previous wives. About how unfortunate their deaths had been.

I grabbed my laptop and sat on my bed, still in my towel, hair dripping. Mother would kill me if she knew I wasn't getting ready, but this was more important than any dress fitting.

I typed carefully into my laptop, Lawrence Blackwell wife death

The results made my blood run cold.

Wife 1, Margaret Blackwell (née Morrison) died 1998, age 29. Fell down stairs at Blackwell Estate. Death ruled accidental.

Wife 2, Catherine Blackwell (née Stewart) died 2015, age 34. Drug overdose. Death ruled accidental, though Catherine's sister contested the ruling.

I clicked on the second article, my hands shaking, there was a buried court document, sealed but summarized in a investigative piece from a small newspaper.

Catherine's sister had filed a wrongful death suit, alleging that Lawrence had been emotionally abusive, that Catherine had been terrified of him, that she would never have taken her own life.

The case was dismissed because there was lack of evidence.

Both wives had left their entire fortunes to Lawrence in their wills.

"Oh God," I whispered.

My bedroom door flew open. "Elara, what are you...why aren't you dressed?"

I slammed my laptop shut, but not before Mother caught a glimpse of the screen.

"What are you looking at?" Her voice was sharp.

"Nothing. Research for a... a charity project."

"Don't lie to me." She crossed the room in three strides, tried to open my laptop, but I held it closed.

"Mother, please—"

"The dress fitting is in forty-five minutes. Get. Dressed. Now." Each word was clipped, precise, furious.

I nodded, not trusting my own voice.

She left, slamming the door this time, while I sat there, laptop burning in my hands, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Two dead wives, both young, both ruled as "accidents" and Father wanted me to be wife number three.

No.

The word echoed in my head, growing louder with each repetition.

No. No. No.

I will not do this, I will not smile and nod and walk down that aisle to a man who might have murdered two women.

I will not become another tragic accident.

But how do I escape?

Father controlls my trust fund until I turn thirty.

I have a small allowance, but not enough to disappear, not enough to start over somewhere he couldn't find me.

Running away isn't an option either, father and that old dog, they have too many connections, too much reach.

I need protection. Real protection.

The kind of protection that even Richard Vance couldn't circumvent.

A news alert,