The Unwanted Wife's Ultimate Escape

The heavy oak doors of the estate swung open.

Warm, golden light from the massive crystal chandelier spilled out into the cold night air.

The grand living room was packed. Men in tuxedos and women in designer gowns held crystal champagne flutes. The low hum of wealthy conversation filled the space.

As Blair and Blackburn stepped inside, the talking stopped.

Dozens of eyes turned to look at them.

Blair sucked in a sharp breath. She forced the corners of her mouth up. She plastered on the hollow, flawless smile she had perfected over three years.

Blackburn's hand slid from her arm down to her waist. He pulled her flush against his hip. His fingers dug possessively into the black silk of her dress. To the room, it looked like an act of deep devotion.

Marion Gilbert walked toward them.

Her heels clicked sharply against the marble floor. She wore a dark emerald gown. Her eyes were as cold as the diamonds around her neck.

She stopped in front of them. She didn't smile.

She looked Blair up and down, her gaze lingering on the dark circles under Blair's eyes.

Marion leaned in. She kept her voice low, but the venom was thick.

"I see the federal raid on your father's office hasn't ruined your appetite for our champagne," Marion sneered. "The Morgan name is a stain on this family. You are an embarrassment."

Blair's stomach twisted. She curled her hands into tight fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She kept her smile frozen on her face.

Blackburn's arm tightened around Blair's waist like a steel band.

He looked down at his mother. His eyes were flat and dangerous.

"Blair is my wife," Blackburn said. His voice was smooth, but it carried a lethal warning. "Her family's issues are my business. Do not speak to her like that again."

Marion's jaw tightened. A flash of anger crossed her face, but she recognized the absolute authority in her son's tone. She let out a short, bitter huff and turned away.

The surrounding relatives quickly looked away, pretending they hadn't heard.

Blackburn guided Blair through the crowd. They walked up the grand sweeping staircase.

They stopped in front of the heavy wooden door of the master bedroom.

Blackburn pushed it open.

The room smelled strongly of antiseptic and old lavender.

Augusta Gilbert lay in the center of a massive four-poster bed. She looked frail. Her skin was pale and papery. But when she saw them, her dull eyes lit up.

Blair walked quickly to the side of the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress. She took Augusta's thin, cold hand in hers.

"Grandma," Blair whispered. Her throat felt tight.

Blackburn stood right behind Blair. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Augusta reached out her other hand. She grabbed Blackburn's wrist and pulled it down, forcing his hand to rest on top of Blair's.

The old woman patted their stacked hands.

"You two," Augusta croaked. Her voice was weak. "I don't have much time left. I want to see a great-grandchild. I want the Gilbert heir."

Blair's entire body went rigid. Her lungs stopped working. She couldn't breathe.

Blackburn didn't miss a beat.

He flipped his hand over and intertwined his fingers with Blair's. His thumb stroked the back of her hand in slow, agonizingly tender circles.

"Don't worry, Grandmother," Blackburn said softly. "We are working on it. We will give you an heir soon."

As he spoke, he tilted his head. He looked down at Blair. His dark eyes were filled with a terrifying, silent threat. Play along.

Blair swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She forced a nod.

Augusta smiled. She closed her eyes and let out a tired sigh.

Ten minutes later, they walked out of the bedroom.

They walked down the long, carpeted hallway. They turned the corner, stepping into a dark alcove where the security cameras couldn't reach.

The second they were out of sight, Blackburn dropped his hand from her waist.

As the warmth of his touch vanished, the freezing reality of their arrangement returned. He took a step back. His long fingers mindlessly rubbed the seam of his tailored trousers, as if trying to erase the ghost of her touch from his skin. He turned his face away, his jaw set into a hard, unforgiving line of pure ice.

Blair watched him. She reached up and rubbed her aching right wrist.

She let out a dry, humorless laugh.

"You should move to Hollywood," Blair said, her voice dripping with pure acid. "That performance in there? You deserve an Oscar."