My fiancé casually announced that he was going to spend a week playing husband and wife with his female best friend. To keep me from complaining, he magnanimously suggested I play girlfriend to his estranged uncle. I told him he’d lost his goddamn mind. Chase didn’t even flinch. In fact, he pulled me in for a patronizing goodbye hug, his voice dripping with unearned righteousness. “Look, babe, they say temptation is the ultimate test of character. Rory’s doing this for “us”. If I can spend seven days sharing a roof with a gorgeous woman and keep my hands to myself, won’t you walk down the aisle with absolute peace of mind?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his duffel, tossed the keys to our new townhouse into my palm, and climbed into Rory’s convertible. “Uncle Malcolm’s red-eye lands at midnight,” Chase called through the open window before peeling away from the curb. “Don’t stay up late binge-watching your shows. Keep it down. He likes his quiet.” I stood on the driveway, the brass key biting into my skin, boiling with a rage so cold it tasted metallic. I wheeled my suitcase toward the front door, fully intending to grab the rest of my things and disappear forever. I jerked the door open. Standing on the welcome mat was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a charcoal overcoat, his hand resting on the handle of an identical Rimowa suitcase. A faint, unnatural chill drifted off him, carrying the timeless, suffocating aura of an apex predator who had walked the earth for centuries. He lifted his head. Our eyes met, and the air evaporated from my lungs. “Well, well.” If it wasn’t my devastatingly handsome, fiercely wealthy, utterly ruined ex-boyfriend—an ancient, immortal creature wrapped in human wealth. It turned out that even if Chase could somehow keep his hands to himself for seven days, I definitely wouldn’t be able to keep mine to myself tonight. … The second I tried to haul my suitcase past him and bolt into the driveway, Malcolm reacted as if he’d anticipated the move years ago. His arm shot out, bracing against the doorframe, effectively trapping me inside. “Margot,” he murmured, his deep voice carrying that familiar, low vibration—a resonance that belonged to the undead, yet still possessed the power to undo me completely. “I saw your photo on the family group chat, and I boarded the first plane out of London.” A dry, brittle laugh escaped my throat. I masked my panic behind a wall of pure corporate polish. “Good evening, Uncle Malcolm… and good night, Uncle Malcolm.” At that title, the warmth vanished from his features, leaving only the hardened, alabaster mask of an immortal. His jaw hardened. His hand slid from the doorframe down to the telescoping handle of my suitcase, locking it in place with effortless, terrifying strength. When he spoke again, his voice dropped an octave, heavy with suppressed centuries of fury. “Tell me what that useless nephew of mine has that I didn’t. What made you walk out on me without a backward glance and hide for four straight years from a creature who would have laid the world at your feet?” My pulse hammered against my ribs. I snatched my fingers off the handle as if his freezing skin had burned mine. Seeing the revulsion—or sheer terror—in my retreat, Malcolm’s eyes dimmed, a flash of red bleeding briefly into the dark irises. The predatory tension bled out of his shoulders, replaced by something weary and infinitely gentler, yet heavier than time itself. He took half a step back, yielding space. “Forget it,” he coaxed softly. “If you don’t want to talk about it, don’t. It’s pouring outside, Margot. You don’t have to freeze in a downpour just to run away from me.” He released the luggage, turned on his heel, and started down the hallway toward the guest wing. “Wait…” The syllable tore out of me before my brain could stop it. Malcolm halted mid-stride. When he turned back, the slow, knowing tilt of his lips told me he had played me like a cello. “I knew it,” he whispered, amused and devastatingly confident. “You still care for the monster you broke.” A dozen sharp rebuttals gathered behind my teeth, but I bit down hard, swallowing every single one. I was wearing Chase’s engagement ring. And the man standing under the hall chandelier was Chase’s immortal uncle, a creature who ruled the shadows of our world. The more I said, the deeper the trap would close around my neck. Because the truth was uglier than he knew: four years ago, I hadn’t targeted Malcolm out of love. I targeted him for cold, hard cash. The woman he had publicly humiliated by rejecting an arranged coven alliance happened to be a senior from my sorority. Humiliated and vindictive, she offered me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash to make Malcolm fall head over heels for me—and then break his immortal heart into jagged little pieces. That hundred and fifty thousand was the exact sum needed for my mother’s emergency heart surgery, plus my final two years of college tuition. So I gritted my teeth, spent a month studying his habits, borrowed designer clothes, and spent three relentless months playing the untouchable, spirited society girl until Malcolm finally yielded, lowering his eternal guard and letting me into his life. He gave me everything. He was attentive, tender, protective to a fault. And the longer we stayed together, the more exhausting the masquerade became, because every touch felt like a debt I couldn’t repay. The night he dropped to one knee in a candlelit courtyard in Manhattan, opening a velvet box holding a flawless four-carat cushion-cut diamond, I didn’t cry tears of joy. A terrifying numbness washed over me. “Malcolm,” I said, my voice shockingly level. “We’re done.” He knelt there, the world freezing around him. “Why?” he had asked. I gave him the line my senior had scripted for me: “You’re nine years older than me. You’re practically an antique.” Cruel. Shallow. Incurable. It worked like a charm. Malcolm never called me again—though I later learned he had endured a hundred brutal strikes of an ancient disciplinary ritual in his family courtyard for defying the elders to be with me. The professional escort who had mentored me on how to snare wealthy men during those frantic months had given me one cardinal rule: “In our line of work, the only fatal mistake is catching feelings for the mark.” I took the wire transfer. I paid the hospital. I vanished into the wind. Two years later, suffocating under my parents’ relentless pressure to settle down, I was pushed into a blind date with Chase. Chase shared roughly thirty percent of Malcolm’s bone structure—the sharp cheekbones, the faint cleft in his chin—and that phantom resemblance was enough to bypass my defenses. When Chase asked me out, I said yes. He was charming, attentive, and financially stable. His only flaw was Rory, the tomboyish best friend who clung to his life like an invasive ivy vine. When he proposed two years later, I said yes again. Not because I was hopelessly in love, but because I was tired of running, and I knew a practical match like Chase didn’t come around twice. A sudden click pulled me out of the spiral. My suitcase was gone. Malcolm had casually wheeled it straight into his master suite. Panic spiked hot and cold down my spine. The luggage we used was the exact matching set we had bought together during a weekend trip to Florence years ago. If he unzipped the front pocket, he would find the velvet pouch containing the four-carat engagement ring he had once offered me—the only souvenir I had been too weak to sell. I marched over and knocked firmly on his door. Silence. I pressed my ear against the wood and heard the muffled hiss of running water. I reached for the handle just as his voice drifted through the panel, clear, effortless, and dripping with ancient amusement. “I’m in the shower. Door’s unlocked. If you need something, just walk in.” I ground my molars, pushed the door open, and made a beeline for my luggage. Right then, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Chase. “Margot… why didn’t you text me?” His voice was thick with tequila, his words slurring into a self-righteous whine. “Rory had a couple drinks and started telling the guys that she was testing my loyalty for your sake. I had to play along, babe. I couldn’t make her look bad in front of the crew.” “Chase—” “Don’t worry about my uncle,” he interrupted carelessly. “He doesn’t know about our arrangement. He’ll probably head over to Grandfather’s estate first thing in the morning anyway. Whatever you do, don’t piss him off to spite me. He’s the most ruthless, cold-blooded bastard in our family lineage.” A lethal retort formed on my tongue, but as I turned around, my words withered away. Lying neatly on the middle of the crisp duvet was a printed, framed selfie of me. And from the en-suite bathroom wafted the unmistakable, sweet scent of wild strawberry body wash—the exact brand I had used religiously four years ago, a scent Malcolm used to bury his face in every single night to pretend I smelled like life. My stomach did a violent, thrilling flip. He hadn’t left the door unlocked by accident. He was making sure I saw every single trace of his immortal obsession. Chase thought his uncle was an unapproachable tyrant? Hilarious. His uncle was the easiest man in the world for me to provoke. “Margot? You there?” Chase’s voice droned through the speaker. The call went dead. Not because I hung up. A wet, lean hand reached over my shoulder from behind, long fingers pressing the red icon on the screen with cold finality. The skin of his hand radiated a chilling, supernatural cold. Before I could inhale, heat—or rather, the terrifying absence of it—pressed flush against my back. A damp, muscular chest settled against my spine, drops of water soaking through the thin fabric of my blouse. Malcolm’s arm wrapped around my waist, lifting me effortlessly against him until my heels barely brushed the carpet. His chin rested in the crook of my neck, his breath stirring the stray hairs at my temple, thoroughly amused. “My little nephew is surprisingly generous,” he murmured, his voice dark with velvet satisfaction. “He seems to know exactly what his uncle has been craving for four long years.” Every nerve ending in my body caught fire. I drove my elbow back into his ribs, though it felt like striking solid marble, tore myself from his grip, and bolted through the doorway without looking back—leaving both suitcases behind. From down the hall, his low, wicked chuckle followed me like smoke, making my heart thrash wildly against my ribs. … The next morning was supposed to be my bridal photoshoot with Chase. He had called fourteen times before eight in the morning. I let every single one go to voicemail. I drove to the boutique bridal studio on the waterfront and signed in at the reception desk. I wanted my name stamped on the registry so that when the wedding inevitably imploded, he couldn’t pin the blame on my absence. The young receptionist glanced at the ledger, her expression shifting through a dozen flavors of awkward sympathy. “Is there a problem?” I asked coolly. She shifted on her heels, clutching her clipboard like a shield. “Well… the reservation under Mr. Langford’s name… the bride and groom are already in the outdoor garden. They’re almost finished with the session.” Before I could process the sentence, a loud, raucous laugh drifted from the sunlit courtyard outside. “Listen up, losers!” Rory’s unmistakable, gravelly voice echoed off the limestone pillars. “This is the only time in your lives you’ll ever see your bro in a white gown! Get your damn cameras out before the miracle expires!” I walked through the French doors. Rory was standing by the stone fountain, draped in the bespoke lace gown I had spent three months waiting for. A crowd of Chase’s frat-boy friends stood whistling and cheering around her. Chase was in a tailored black tuxedo, leaning down toward her lips for the camera. Someone in the crowd shoved his shoulder from behind. Chase lost his balance and stumbled forward, his mouth crashing directly onto hers. Rory pulled back, smacked her lips theatrically, and made a gagging face. “Zero stars. Needs improvement, dude.” The guys roared with laughter. Then Chase saw me. The laughter died instantly, choking off into a suffocating quiet. “Babe,” Chase stammered, his face flushing dark. Yet instinctively, he took a step sideways, angling his body to shield Rory behind him. “Wait, let me explain—” Rory reached out from behind his back, giving his rear a sharp, playful pinch. “Who’re you calling ‘babe,’ wimp?” I didn’t utter a word. I turned around and headed for the exit. Chase caught up with me in the marble rotunda, his hand clamping around my wrist. “Margot, stop! You know how the guys are—they joke around! Treat it like a joke!” he hissed, his breathing ragged. “Rory didn’t mean anything by it. We literally agreed that this week was an exercise in trust—” I stopped dead and turned to meet his eyes. “Chase. She wore my dress. She kissed your mouth. Why don’t you save yourself the paperwork and just marry her?” Chase’s jaw dropped, followed quickly by indignation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I was too drained to bother raising my voice. The receptionist had said they were almost finished, and I hadn’t even been surprised. Over the last two years, Rory had weaponized her status as his “tomboy buddy” to torch every significant milestone in our relationship. Our first anniversary trip to Aspen—booked six months in advance. Rory had a bad breakup the night before, and Chase abandoned me at the gate to fly to Miami and drink margaritas with her on the beach. He posted a photo of her sleeping on his shoulder with the caption: “Bros over hoes, forever.” The first time Chase met my parents, Rory brought five of their drinking buddies along, got him so wasted he vomited on my mother’s foyer rug, and laughed the whole time about how Chase “couldn’t hold his liquor like a real man.” She wasn’t naive. She was malicious. If today had gone smoothly, I would have felt out of place. “It means,” I said, my voice cutting through the lobby like glass, “that no grown man with an ounce of dignity lets another woman wear his fiancée’s wedding dress. She plays dumb, but what’s your excuse?” Rory strolled up behind him, still swathed in my silk chiffon, looping her arm comfortably through Chase’s elbow. “Relax, Margot,” she chirped, tilting her head with an innocent smirk. “I haven’t seduced your boy yet. I’m doing you a massive favor by stress-testing his boundaries. You should be thanking me.” “Stress-testing?” I glanced at the gown clinging to her frame. “I don’t know where Chase’s boundaries are, Rory. But yours crossed the line of basic human decency years ago.” Her smirk fractured. Chase’s fingers tightened on my wrist until the bone throbbed with pain. “She’s straightforward, Margot! Don’t drag her down into your paranoid, twisted head games! Apologize to Rory right now, and I’ll pretend this temper tantrum never happened.” Before I could rip my hand away, a smooth, lethally calm voice cut through the air behind us—a voice that carried the ancient chill of the night. “Take your filthy paws off my wife.” A sharp, resounding crack echoed through the rotunda as Malcolm struck Chase’s forearm, knocking his grip away with casual, inhuman violence. Malcolm stood tall, immaculate in an Italian wool suit, his dark eyes flashing with a predatory crimson glint as his gaze swept over the gaggle of frat boys with pure, unadulterated disgust. “No wonder you’re bleeding your inheritance dry,” Malcolm said, his tone biting. “You spend your days surrounded by morons. What a pathetic waste of skin.” Chase, who was notorious for flying off the handle at the slightest slight, went pale as a sheet. He stepped back, shrinking like a whipped dog under his undead uncle’s overwhelming bloodline pressure. “Uncle Malcolm… I—I didn’t know you were in town,” Chase stammered, rubbing his bruised wrist where the bone felt slightly cracked. “This is just Margot… she probably complained to you last night, didn’t she? She’s young, she gets emotional over nothing. Don’t take her seriously.” Malcolm looked at me, an enigmatic, razor-sharp smile playing on his lips, softening the deathly pallor of his skin. “She certainly lacks judgment,” Malcolm said dryly. “Her eyesight must be deteriorating rapidly. Otherwise, how on earth did she ever look twice at someone like you?” A dark vein twitched on Chase’s temple, but immortal fear kept him anchored. “Uncle Malcolm, why are you here?” Malcolm slipped his hands into his pockets, leisurely tilting his head. “Didn’t you propose a partner swap? Margot is my wife now. If you can parade another woman around in a wedding dress, why shouldn’t I take photos with her?” Chase froze, forcing an awkward, disbelieving laugh. “Uncle, you’re joking. The age gap between you two… it’s absurd. How could—” Malcolm didn’t raise his voice; he simply shifted his gaze, locking his crimson-flecked eyes onto Chase. Chase choked on his own spit. The rest of his sentence died in his throat, suffocated by the phantom weight of a predator looking at prey. A bubble of hysterical amusement rose in my chest. Word on the street years ago was that after I called Malcolm an “antique,” he had been so thoroughly wounded that he quietly sought out anti-aging dermatologists in Switzerland—though in truth, he didn’t age at all, being a creature of the dark. Chase poking that exact wound was practically begging for an execution. Malcolm turned to the trembling studio manager. “Bring your best photographer. Your best makeup artist. Make sure this lady leaves here completely satisfied.” The manager swallowed hard. “Sir, we’re fully booked today… and our top photographer is currently assigned to Miss Rory’s shoot—” She glanced toward Chase, terrified to finish the sentence. Malcolm didn’t even blink. “Clear the floor.” “Sir?” “You heard me. Clear the building. Keep the photographer. I’ll pay five times their standard day rate in solid gold or wire, I don’t care. My time with my wife is expensive.” Chase’s face turned the color of raw liver. His fists clenched tightly at his sides. Terrified to challenge his uncle, he swung his fury back toward me. “Margot! Do you really think taking bridal photos with my uncle is appropriate?” I tilted my chin, meeting his gaze with venomous satisfaction. “You started the game, Chase. I’m just playing by your rules. Besides, you said it yourself—your uncle isn’t someone to mess with. How could I possibly disobey him?” Without missing a beat, I stepped forward and tucked my hand smoothly into the crook of Malcolm’s elbow, noting how his skin felt like cool, polished marble beneath his sleeve. Rory let out a shrill, mocking scoff. “Oh, please, Margot! Everyone knows you clung to Chase for his trust fund. Now his rich uncle shows up and you jump straight into his lap? You’re literally proving to the world that you’re nothing but a gold digger.” The words hung in the air. Then, Malcolm laughed. It was a rich, delighted sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes, baring the faintest glint of sharper-than-normal canines. “She’s a gold digger?” he mused aloud, turning toward me with evident wonder. “Why didn’t anyone tell me sooner?” He leaned down, his freezing breath brushing the curve of my ear, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper meant only for me: “Thank God wealth is the one thing I have an endless supply of across centuries. I was terrified I didn’t have anything left to tempt you with.” My breath caught. When the stylist approached to lead me into the dressing room, I hesitated, rooted to the spot. Malcolm leaned closer, his voice barely a murmur: “📱 If you keep standing there waiting for Chase to apologize, he’s going to figure out our history in about three seconds.” A chill ran down my scalp. I spun around and followed the stylist inside. I chose a vintage, heavy-silk ballgown with delicate off-the-shoulder straps—the aesthetic of an Old World oil painting, fitting for a bride of the night. When I stepped out of the fitting room, both men went rigid. Chase took a step forward, his eyes wide, his hand reaching out instinctively. Malcolm, however, possessed longer legs and zero hesitation. He moved like a dark shadow, cutting Chase off effortlessly, and took my bare hand into his steady, cool grip. He didn’t give anyone a chance to breathe. Leading me toward the grand studio, he threw a single instruction over his shoulder: “You have five minutes to vacate the premises. You’re an eyesore.” Chase remained rooted on the marble floor, his eyes burning into my spine, waiting for me to turn around and smooth things over. I didn’t flinch. When the real master of the shadows is holding your hand, why look back at a cheap knockoff? The photographer positioned us against a dark velvet backdrop, calling out directions: “Groom, hand on the bride’s waist, please. Draw her in close.” Malcolm’s palm settled against the curve of my ribs, firm and searing through the silk, anchoring me with immortal strength. I looked up. His dark eyes were waiting for me, stripped bare of all mockery, swirling with an intensity that pulled the air straight out of my chest. His throat worked, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Whether driven by the heat of the moment or a scheme centuries in the making, his voice dropped to a gravelly plead: “Marry me, Margot. For real, this time.” My lips parted. I wanted to confess right then. I wanted to tell him that the girl he knew four years ago was a hollow lie, that every word out of my mouth had been orchestrated for cash. He spoke before I could make a sound. “Before we ever went on our first date four years ago, I ran a background check on you. I knew every dime you owed. I knew about the bet.” My heart stopped. “I waited for you to tell me the truth,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my waistline. “When you left, I didn’t chase you because I was terrified that not a single second of it had been real to you. But when I heard you were settling for my worthless nephew…” He swallowed, his voice cracking with an ache that shattered me completely. “I realized I couldn’t wait anymore across the dark. I’d rather buy you than lose you to someone like him.” A fist tightened around my heart, squeezing until it broke, then letting go into a soaring, terrifying freedom. I nodded. The next morning, long before the sun cleared the horizon, we stood outside City Hall, taking the very first queue ticket just as the night faded. When the two maroon leather-bound marriage licenses were tucked securely into my coat pocket, the sky was just beginning to blush with pale, silver dawn—safe for an immortal bridegroom. We drove back to the townhouse so I could pack the rest of my life. I unlocked the door to find Chase sprawled on the living room sofa, smelling like stale whiskey, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. Rory’s Instagram post from 3:00 AM was still the top of my feed: a photo of Chase passed out with his head cradled in her lap, captioned, “My designated driver forever.” That post was the final seal on my decision. If my future was destined to be a miserable, crowded threesome, I’d rather burn the stage down and leave. Chase spotted my luggage, and the alcohol seemed to drain from his face all at once. He scrambled to his feet, lunging toward me and throwing his arms around my shoulders, his voice pathetically raspy: “Margot… I’m so sorry, babe.” “I called Uncle Malcolm late last night,” he rushed out, holding me tighter. “I told him the wife-swap game was over. I asked him to send you back to me.” I tilted my head, studying him with detached fascination. “And what did your uncle say?” “He said… he said you were an extraordinary woman.” Chase’s eyes lit up with desperate relief. “You know how impossible Uncle Malcolm is to please. If he praised you, it means you’re incredible. Let’s not waste any more time, Margot. Let’s go to City Hall today. Right now.” I looked at him with an expression so vacant, so ice-cold, that it stopped him mid-sentence. I pushed his hands off my shoulders and stepped back, carving a chasm between us. “Too bad, Chase. We can’t.” He blinked, utterly confused, stepping forward to placate me. “Babe, are you still throwing a fit?” I smiled, shaking my head lightly. “You might be ready to play house, but the law—and holy matrimony—has a much more rigid definition of bigamy when you marry an immortal.” “What are you talking about?” I looked into his bloodshot eyes and enunciated every single syllable: “I am already married. And the groom isn’t you.”
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “570803”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel
Leave a Reply