The Substitute Bride of the Scarred Billionaire Heir

Three days after the Seraphina returned to harbor, Dereck Carlisle was back inside the private study of Carlisle Manor, a sprawling estate sealed behind iron gates and miles of old forest.

"Sir, the Snyder family has confirmed. The bride will arrive at the estate this afternoon."

Dereck Carlisle didn't look up from his desk. He slowly rotated the small jade pendant between his thumb and forefinger, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat of his frustration. For three days, the entire Carlisle security team, the best money could buy, had turned up nothing.

"And the pendant?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Julian Foster shifted his weight, his expression uneasy. "The yacht's security footage from that night was corrupted, sir. A... convenient malfunction. All we know for certain is that the woman was arranged for you by the Snyders."

Dereck's hand stopped moving. His head snapped up, his eyes, the color of a stormy sea, narrowing on Julian. "The Snyders?"

The two pieces of information slammed together in his mind, forming a single, ugly conclusion. It wasn't a chance encounter. It was a setup. A carefully orchestrated trap by the Snyders to ensure this marriage went through. They had sent a woman to his bed, a honey trap, to compromise him.

A bitter, cold rage filled him. The brief moment of peace he'd felt, the hope that he'd found a cure, curdled into disgust. He had been played.

And this bride, this Alaina Romero, was the centerpiece of their scheme. A woman willing to sell her body to secure a contract. He already despised her.

"Let her come," Dereck said, his voice a low growl. He placed the pendant carefully on his desk, as if it were evidence in a trial. "I want to see exactly what kind of game they think they're playing."

That afternoon, a Rolls-Royce Ghost ghosted up the long, winding driveway of the Carlisle estate. To Alaina, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress, magnificent and utterly devoid of warmth.

The head of staff, a man named Arthur Finch with a face carved from stone, greeted her at the door. His words were polite, but his eyes were cold and dismissive, raking over her simple dress with thinly veiled disdain.

"Mr. Carlisle is not feeling well," Arthur announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He will not be seeing you tonight. I will show you to your suite."

Alaina's heart pounded with a mixture of relief and dread. She followed him through vast, silent halls, her footsteps echoing on the marble floors. The air was heavy, oppressive. She felt like a prisoner being led to her cell.

He stopped before a large oak door in a secluded wing of the mansion, unlocked it, and pushed it open. "Your room, madam." He gestured for her to enter, and then, without another word, he pulled the door shut behind her. The click of the lock turning from the outside was loud in the silence.

The room was luxurious, but shrouded in darkness. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight, blocking out the afternoon sun.

She took a hesitant step inside, dragging the small suitcase that contained all her worldly possessions. And then she smelled it. The same heavy, masculine cologne from the yacht cabin.

A cold dread washed over her. This wasn't her room.

She spun around, her hand fumbling for the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn. She was locked in.

"Trying to leave so soon?"

A deep, raspy voice emerged from the shadows. Alaina let out a small, terrified scream as a tall, broad-shouldered figure rose from an armchair in the corner. He moved toward her, a predator stalking its prey in the dark.

She couldn't see his face, but his presence filled the room, suffocating her. She scrambled backward, her hands flailing behind her until she hit the cold, unyielding wall.

He was on her in an instant. His hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist like a manacle. The strength in his grip was terrifying; it felt like he could snap her bones without effort.

"So you're the gift the Snyders sent," he sneered, his voice laced with contempt.

She struggled against him, her free hand slapping against the wall, searching for anything, a weapon, an escape. Her fingers brushed against a light switch. On pure instinct, she flicked it up.

The grand crystal chandelier overhead burst to life, flooding the room with brilliant, unforgiving light.

Alaina squinted against the sudden brightness. And then she saw him.

His face was, or had been, brutally handsome, with a strong jaw and aristocratic features. But a network of raised, jagged scars ravaged the left side, starting from his temple, cutting across his cheek, and disappearing beneath his collar. They were a violent, angry red, pulling the skin taut and twisting his features into a permanent, subtle snarl.

Her breath hitched. The air in her lungs turned to ice. The rumors were true. He was a monster.

He saw the raw terror in her eyes, and a cruel, humorless smile twisted his lips, making the scars write. "What's the matter? Scared?"

Her mind was a whirlwind of noise and panic. The disfigured heir... the man from the yacht... it couldn't be.

Her own lips trembled as she forced out the name, a choked whisper. "You... you're Dereck Carlisle?"