Dying for Revenge While His Mistress Played Mother

The sleek black Bentley pulled up to the curb outside St. Patrick's Cathedral, its polished surface reflecting the Manhattan skyline like a dark mirror. I sat motionless in the backseat, my hands perfectly still on the ivory silk of my wedding gown. Three years of planning had led to this moment. Three years since I'd hidden in that basement, watching through a crack as my parents were executed on Richard Sterling's orders.

"We've arrived, Ms. Morgan," the chauffeur announced, interrupting my thoughts.

"Thank you," I replied, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside me. "And it's Mrs. Sterling now. Or it will be, in approximately forty-seven minutes."

As I emerged from the car, the September breeze caught my veil, sending it fluttering like a white flag of surrender. But surrender was the furthest thing from my mind. The cathedral loomed before me, its Gothic spires piercing the sky like accusations. Inside waited the son of the man who had destroyed my world.

Nathan Sterling stood at the top of the steps, tall and imposing in his custom Tom Ford tuxedo. His chiseled features betrayed no emotion as his eyes met mine. No smile. No warmth. Just a curt nod before he turned away to shake hands with a cluster of older men in expensive suits – his father's board members, I recognized from my research.

"Isabella," he acknowledged when I reached him, his voice as cold as the marble beneath our feet. "You're punctual. Good."

I offered him the smile I'd practiced a thousand times in the mirror – demure, adoring, and entirely false. "I wouldn't dream of keeping you waiting, Nathan."

His eyes flickered over me briefly, assessing rather than admiring, before returning to his conversation. The message was clear: I was an acquisition, not a bride.

Perfect. Let him underestimate me. Let them all underestimate me.

* * *

The Plaza Hotel ballroom glittered with crystal chandeliers and the jewelry of Manhattan's elite. I sat at the head table beside Nathan, maintaining my smile as his best man, Ethan Vance, tapped his glass for attention.

"To Nathan and Isabella Sterling," Ethan announced, his Harvard accent thick with privilege. "May this alliance strengthen Sterling Enterprises and bring prosperity to all parties involved."

Alliance. Not marriage. Not love. Business.

Laughter rippled through the crowd as champagne flutes clinked. From the corner of my eye, I caught Ethan leaning toward another of Nathan's friends, whispering something that sent them both into barely suppressed snickers as they glanced my way.

"Poor thing thinks she's in a fairy tale," I heard one murmur.

"Wait until she learns about Charlotte," another replied.

My cheeks burned, but I kept my composure, taking a deliberate sip of champagne. Let them laugh. They wouldn't be laughing when I was finished.

Nathan didn't bother to defend me. He barely acknowledged my presence throughout the reception, speaking to me only when necessary for appearances. His mother, Eleanor, watched me from across the room with thinly veiled disdain, no doubt cataloging every perceived flaw for future reference.

* * *

The penthouse on Fifth Avenue was a monument to wealth and power – all glass, steel, and minimalist design with panoramic views of Central Park. Our home, according to property records. Our prison, according to the look in Nathan's eyes as he loosened his tie and poured himself three fingers of scotch.

"We need to establish some ground rules," he said without preamble, not bothering to offer me a drink.

I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, still in my wedding dress, the city lights creating a halo around my reflection. "I'm listening."

"This marriage is a business arrangement, nothing more." Nathan swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "You'll have the east wing of the penthouse. I'll take the west. We maintain separate bedrooms."

"I assumed as much," I replied evenly.

"Good." He took a long swallow of scotch. "I have no interest in pretending this is something it's not. My heart belongs to Charlotte Hayes."

Charlotte Hayes. The name I'd researched extensively. His college sweetheart, currently studying art history in London. Or so the society pages claimed.

"She'll be returning from London soon," Nathan continued, his voice softening slightly at the mention of her name. "When she visits, you will make yourself scarce. You will never interfere with our relationship. Is that clear?"

I met his gaze steadily, swallowing the bitter taste of hatred that rose in my throat. "Crystal."

"One more thing." He set down his empty glass with a decisive click. "Don't develop any emotional attachments. This arrangement works best when feelings don't complicate matters."

A small, genuine smile curved my lips for the first time that day. "You don't need to worry about that, Nathan. I promise you, my heart is completely safe from you."

He nodded, satisfied, completely missing the double meaning in my words.

As he walked away toward his wing of the penthouse, leaving me alone on my wedding night, I turned back to the window. In the reflection, I could see the steel in my eyes, the resolve hardening like concrete.

Three years ago, I'd made a vow while watching my parents' blood pool on our living room floor. Tonight, as Nathan Sterling's wife, I was one step closer to fulfilling it.