I spend far too long standing there in shock, looking at all these tiny clues adding up to an impossible reality.
Wolf motifs everywhere? Check for werewolf paranormal romance.
Wealthy everything? Check for secret billionaire husband.
Plot consistency? So far, spot-on, not that I have much to work with.
Character description? Not sure on Vivienne except I know she was supposed to be gorgeous. Abigail, the true love interest, lamented about it at one point, feeling like she was too plain compared to the extravagant beauty of the doomed villainess.
But Knox? Yeah. He lines up just right.
Damn it.
I'd just acclimated to the vague idea I married—and fucked—my new husband. Now I have to accept that… he kills her thirty chapters into the book.
Yeah.
He. Kills. Her.
No one mourned, of course. Why would they? We all cheered for the death of the woman vicious enough to attempt taking Abigail's life so many times.
I have so many regrets right now because I, too, cheered. I even mentioned how satisfying it was in my review.
This is karma for glorying in the death of a fictional character.
I slap both palms against my cheeks, hard enough to sting and drag my spiraling brain back into this body that isn't mine.
Breathe.
I pull air in through my nose, until my lungs ache. Clean, effortless, abundant air with lungs not damaged by multiple rounds of pneumonia.
And I can't even enjoy it.
Because I'm stuck in a book where my husband murders me for plot convenience.
Breathe out.
It all comes out with a whoosh and I nod at nothing. Anxiety aside, I can't help the plot. Fine. Okay. Then let's approach this with the calm, rational thinking of someone who definitely did not just hyperventilate.
The phone lies face-up on the ground still, with Knox's grim amber stare boring into me. I shiver and resist the urge to fling the phone farther away. Instead, I pick it up and shut the screen off; the lock screen will have to be changed, but there's a more important issue at hand.
Divorce.
That's it. That's the whole plan.
I don't need to be clever about this. I don't need to outmaneuver a thirty-chapter plot or decode cryptic foreshadowing or befriend the heroine before she steals my husband. I just need a lawyer, a signature, and whatever the werewolf equivalent of dividing assets is.
Knox Marshall gets his freedom. Abigail Hensley gets her man. And I get to not die.
Everyone wins.
My laughter is somewhat maniacal and unhinged, but the relief loosening the tightness in my chest is very, very real.
First things first, I can't wear this to a lawyer's office. I look like I'm waiting for dollar bills to be shoved into my cleavage.
Thankfully it's easy to locate a pair of jeans and a simple off-shoulder blouse, complete with a strapless bra—of which she has many and I'm shocked to find they actually work.
How nice to have money.
The phone gets tucked into my back pocket and I leave the purse on the dresser, taking only the wallet and keys, determined to grab a cheaper one at a store somewhere.
But then I hesitate. Money talks, and I want a good lawyer, right?
So I carefully tuck them back into the purse and pick it up, feeling a little like I'm handling a fragile bomb.
It's mine, technically, so it isn't like I have to pay anyone back if I scratch it… right?
Right.
Yep, this is fine. Everything's fine. I'm adjusted, I'm okay, I have a plan, and now we're going for it.
I step over the pile of clothes I tore from hangers in my earlier panic and head for the door.
The mess behind me? Future Vivienne's problem. Current Vivienne has a marriage to dissolve.
The hallway outside is just as ridiculous as the bedroom, but thankfully I spy the stairs and stride toward them with confidence, wishing I had a floorplan for this place. Who knows how easy it is to find the front door.
The stairs in question are wide and sweeping, like I'm Belle in Beast's castle. Of course. Because why not? It's a book, so real-world logic doesn't apply.
My hand grips the banister as I descend, already mentally drafting a Google search. Divorce lawyer near me. Werewolf divorce proceedings. How to divorce a supernatural being without getting your throat ripped out—
But then there are voices. Sharp, loud, angry voices.
They rise from the foyer below, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling in clipped, furious bursts. I freeze three steps from the bottom, fingers tight on the railing.
"—Mrs. Marshall isn't receiving visitors at this—"
"I don't care what she's receiving. Move."
The servant—the same man who brought me the pills—stands at the door like a human barricade.
Opposite is a woman in a sharply tailored charcoal blazer and cream blouse, pushing forward with the energy of someone who has never been told no and certainly won't start accepting it today.
She's tall, with dark brown hair pulled back in a low, severe bun. Her face is angular and thin, her skin pale, and her thin eyebrows are pulled together in anger.
Obviously, I don't know her, but I have no idea if the original body does.
So I stop in the middle of the stairs, staring.
Then the woman's eyes go up and find me there.
The servant turns. He looked calm even through the woman's tirade, but as soon as he sees me panic flickers across his face. "Mrs. Marshall, I was just explaining that—"
"You." The stranger's low, square heels snap against the floor as she shoves past him and plants herself at the base of the stairs, pointing a finger directly at me. "This is your fault."
I blink, wishing I inherited memories along with this body's face. "I—what?"
"Don't you dare play dumb with me right now, Vivienne." Her voice shakes, her eyes narrowed, and venom threads through her words. "Do you have any idea what you've done? Any idea at all?"
I grip the banister with both hands because something in her tone makes my knees feel unreliable. Something flutters in my chest and squeezes around my heart.
"I don't—"
"Mom is in the hospital."
The words should split me in two, but it takes a moment before I realize who "Mom" means.
Is this Charlotte?
She doesn't look like this face, but…
"She collapsed this morning. Stress-triggered hypertensive emergency. Do you understand what that means? Her pressure was high enough to put her at risk of a stroke." The woman's jaw clenches so hard I can see the tendons strain beneath her skin. "The paramedics had to carry her out of the kitchen because she couldn't stand. Dad found her on the floor, Vivienne."
I descend one step. Then another. My hands won't release the railing, and my entire body feels numb.
This is definitely Charlotte, unless the body has another sister.
I think of my own mother, of how I'd react in Charlotte's situation, and it's completely understandable why she's here throwing a fit now.
"Is she—is she okay?"
"Don't." The woman takes two steps up and we meet in the middle. Her finger jabs closer at my face, even as the servant grabs her from behind, trying to pull her away. "Don't you stand there with that concerned look on your face like you didn't cause this. You haven't spoken to us in over a year. I won't forgive you for this." The woman's voice drops as she says viciously, "If something happens to her, Vivienne, I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?"
I stand there, swaying a little, looking down on this stranger who shares this body's family.
My mouth is dry, and I open it helplessly, not even sure what to say.
This is my sister.
And she hates me.
"Which hospital?" I ask finally, my voice cracking.
Her expression flickers, and her hand slowly falls to her side.
"Saint Catherine's."
I nod, the name expectedly unfamiliar. The lawyer, obviously, is on hold. "Take me there."