Flash Marriage To My Dead Husband

The intercom clicked off, plunging the hallway back into an oppressive silence. Chloe's hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp. It couldn't be. A coincidence. It had to be.

She picked up her own suitcase, the handle slick with sweat, and pushed open the heavy double doors at the end of the hall. The master bedroom.

Like the hotel suite, the room was dark, the curtains drawn against the gray afternoon light. A massive, medieval-style four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark wood frame like a cage. She sat on the edge of the mattress, the silk comforter cool beneath her trembling fingers. She pulled her skirt down over her knees, waiting.

A sound from the hallway. A heavy, dragging footstep. Then another. And with each step, the rhythmic tap... tap... of a cane striking the marble floor. The sound grew louder, closer, a slow, terrifying drumbeat counting down her final seconds of peace.

The bedroom doors were thrown open with a violent crash.

A silhouette stood framed in the doorway, a tall man, but stooped, his shoulders hunched. He leaned heavily on a thick wooden cane. The light from the hall was behind him, casting his face in shadow. A sharp, chemical smell, like antiseptic, wafted into the room, mingled with the familiar, sickening scent of cigar smoke.

A dry, rasping laugh echoed in the room, the sound distorted and inhuman. It was the voice from the intercom.

"Take off your clothes," the shadow commanded, striking the doorframe with his cane. The sharp crack made her jump.

A wave of nausea and terror washed over Chloe. She scrambled backward on the bed, her back pressing against the cold, ornate headboard.

He shuffled into the room, the cane tapping a menacing rhythm. He stopped beside the bed and lifted the cane, the cold, polished wood tipping her chin up.

"You're just a thing I bought," he rasped, his voice full of contempt. "A womb for hire. Nothing more."

The cold touch of the cane, the humiliating words-it was the hotel all over again. The memory of that night, the feeling of powerlessness, ignited a spark of defiance in her. Tears welled in her eyes, but her gaze was hard and unbroken.

Her defiance seemed to enrage him. He threw the cane down. It clattered on the hardwood floor. He reached for her, his hand encased in a black leather glove.

As his hand shot toward her shoulder, her own hand, acting on pure instinct, fumbled across the surface of the nightstand. Her fingers closed around something cool and metallic, with a pointed end. A brass letter opener.

She didn't think. She pulled it free, squeezed her eyes shut, and swung it in a desperate, wild arc.

"Get away from me!" she screamed, the words raw and ragged.

The impact never came. Instead, there was a soft, sickening sound, like a knife cutting through thick fabric and flesh.

She opened her eyes.

In the dim moonlight filtering through the curtains, she saw it. He had caught the blade. His gloved hand was wrapped tightly around the sharp edge of the letter opener.

Dark, thick blood welled up, seeping through the seams of the leather. It dripped onto the priceless Persian rug. Drip. Drip. Drip.

The man's body went rigid. A sound escaped his lips-a low, pained grunt, deep and guttural.

And it was the wrong voice.

It wasn't the synthesized, rasping voice of an old man. It was the sound of a young, vital man trying to suppress a cry of pain.

Chloe stared, her mind struggling to process the information. The letter opener fell from her numb fingers, clattering to the floor.

The man snatched his hand back as if burned. He took two stumbling steps away from the bed, cradling his injured hand to his chest.

When he spoke again, the distorted, electronic rasp was back, but it sounded forced, unsteady. "You're insane," he snarled. He turned and fled the room, his movements no longer stooped and slow, but fast and desperate.

The bedroom door slammed shut, shaking the walls.

Chloe collapsed back against the headboard, her body trembling uncontrollably, sucking in deep, ragged breaths. Her eyes were fixed on the dark, spreading stains on the rug. The blood. She had to clean it. If he found it in the morning, what would he do to her?

Pushing herself off the bed on shaky legs, she crept out of the bedroom and down the grand staircase, searching for a cleaning closet. The first floor was dark and silent. A sliver of light shone from under the door of a service room off the main hall.

She crept closer, hearing the hushed voices of the night staff.

"...saw him myself," a woman was saying. "Hand was bleeding something awful. He went straight to the basement. I'm telling you, that curse is real. This one won't see the sunrise."

"Just like the other two," another voice agreed. "Poor girls."

A chill, colder than any draft, snaked down Chloe's spine. She turned to flee back to the relative safety of her room, but in her haste, her hip bumped against a life-sized marble statue. It scraped against the floor with a loud, grating noise.

The whispering inside the room stopped instantly.

Then, the entire hall was flooded with brilliant, blinding light. Motion-sensor chandeliers blazed to life, making her squeeze her eyes shut against the sudden glare.

When she opened them, he was there.

Stepping out from the heavy oak doors of the ground-floor study, he was a tall and broad-shouldered man, dressed in a dark gray suit, though his jacket was unbuttoned, as if he had thrown it on in a frantic hurry. His face was a masterpiece of sharp angles and stark beauty, like a fallen angel from a Renaissance painting. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and his eyes, the color of dark whiskey, were fixed on her.

But it wasn't his face that made her breath catch in her throat.

It was his right hand. He was in the middle of wrapping a pristine white handkerchief tightly around his palm, a stark contrast to his dark suit. And in the center of the white linen, a fresh crimson stain was rapidly, unmistakably, spreading.