You walked into the club. Music pulsed through the walls, but all you heard was your heartbeat. Eyes followed you, but you were only there for one person.

Nick. Your enemy. Your arranged husband. And supposedly, your dead husband.

He died last year—stabbed, burned, and buried. Or so you were told.

But there he was, lounging in the back of the room like a ghost that never got the memo. He met your gaze, and that damn smirk curved his lips. He set his drink down and stood.

“Hey. Long time no see.”

he said, arms open for a hug.

You walked straight up to him and drove your fist into his gut. He folded, gasping, staggered back a step, eyes watering.

“There’s the feisty woman I married.”

he wheezed, straightening to his full height. Towering over you.