The Phantom Wife He Cannot Save

The black Lincoln sedan crunched over the gravel driveway of the Walter family estate on Long Island. Keenan got out first, then held the door for Cheyenne, a perfect imitation of a gentleman. They walked toward the grand entrance, hand in hand.

Aracely's soul lingered by the car, the sight of them together a nauseating parody.

Through the large bay window, she could hear her mother's shrill voice.

"I can't believe it! Aracely, that ungrateful child, faking an illness and running off! She's humiliated this family! Humiliated the Rosses!"

The words were like tiny needles in Aracely's consciousness. Not a shred of concern. Only anger at the social inconvenience.

Keenan pushed the door open.

Brenda Walter's face instantly transformed, her features rearranging into a mask of fawning sympathy. "Keenan, my dear boy! I am so, so sorry about Aracely, she—"

"It doesn't matter," Keenan cut her off. "She's in the past." He squeezed Cheyenne's hand, a deliberate, public gesture.

Brenda's eyes darted between their joined hands, and a greedy, calculating light sparked in her eyes.

"I've decided to marry Cheyenne," Keenan announced, his voice echoing in the marble-floored hall. "Next weekend."

Brenda's jaw dropped. The shock was quickly replaced by unadulterated joy. The Ross fortune, the Ross name—it would all stay connected to the Walter family.

"Oh, Keenan!" she gushed, rushing forward to hug Cheyenne, who feigned a bashful surprise.

I'm dead, Mother, Aracely's soul shrieked at the woman who had given her life. Your other daughter murdered me, and you're celebrating.

But her voice was only silence.

"The wedding will be at St. Patrick's Cathedral," Keenan continued, taking a seat on the sofa as if he owned the place. "I want every newspaper in New York to cover it."

"Of course, of course! Whatever you want!" Brenda chirped, practically vibrating with excitement.

Keenan slid a document across the coffee table. A prenuptial agreement. "Sign it."

Brenda didn't even glance at the pages. She snatched a pen and signed her name with a flourish, a mother eagerly selling off her second daughter.