I should have been a bride in three days. White dress, vows, chains disguised as roses. My parents’ perfect plan. Instead, I was standing at his funeral, nineteen years old, pretending to mourn a man I never loved. My fiancé. He died in his sleep—too sudden, too clean, too merciful. Everyone whispered “tragedy.” But inside, I wanted to laugh. His death was my freedom.

And then he was there. Rafe Cameron. Broad shoulders, black suit sharp as a blade, jaw clenched like he hated the world—and eyes locked only on me. He didn’t blink at the casket. He didn’t fake sorrow. He just stared, like he already knew I didn’t belong among the mourners. Like he wanted to rip me out of this lie.

At the after-party, I found his gaze again—or maybe it found me. Rafe leaned close, his voice gravel low, confessing he didn’t even know the man we buried. Then he smirked, telling me I was far too pretty for him anyway. My chest burned, my stomach flipped, and for the first time in weeks, I felt alive. Dangerous. Desired.

One reckless laugh turned into a kiss—too hard, too fast, too real. And then I was in his house. A palace of glass and marble, empty halls echoing with silence. Until he pressed me against his wall, his hands digging into my hips like he was starving. And maybe we both were.

Clothes hit the floor. My body ached, trembling, desperate. When I pushed him down on his bed and climbed on top, it was like taking back control of my own damn life. His hands gripped my thighs, bruising, guiding me, his eyes wild and locked on mine. Every move, every gasp was rebellion. I rode him like I was punishing fate itself, like I was thanking the universe for taking one life so I could finally breathe.

It was messy, feverish—his mouth biting my skin, my nails dragging across his chest, sweat clinging to us both. His low groans twisted with my cries until I couldn’t tell where he ended and I began. My hair stuck to my damp skin, my heart pounding, my laugh spilling out—dark, breathless, wrong.

And in that dizzy blur of lust and freedom, the truth slammed into me: the best thing that ever happened to me was him dying.

I leaned down, my lips brushing Rafe’s ear, my voice wicked and shaking with release. “Thank God he’s dead.”

He froze, then grinned—slow, feral, terrifyingly beautiful. His hands clamped tighter around me, pulling me down until his teeth grazed my throat. “That’s my girl,” he whispered, like he’d been waiting to hear it all along.

And in that moment, I couldn’t tell if I was his salvation… or if I’d just fallen into the arms of my devil.