Three months after I buried Gavin Mercer, another man knelt in front of me with a diamond ring—and glowing words appeared in the air telling me that accepting it would get me killed.
Chapter 1
I stared at the message floating above Dylan Cole’s shoulder, certain grief had finally broken something inside my mind. The letters shimmered like subtitles projected against the afternoon sunlight, impossible to touch and impossible to ignore.
DON’T TAKE THE RING.
YOUR BEST FRIEND PLANNED THIS.
GAVIN ISN’T FINISHED WITH YOU YET.
Dylan smiled nervously from one knee. “Cassidy?”
Beside him, my best friend Whitney pressed both hands together beneath her chin. “Say yes, Cass. You deserve to be happy again.”
Three months earlier, I had watched Gavin turn cold in my arms on our wedding night. I had kissed his forehead while paramedics tried to revive him, stood beside his closed casket, and watched it lowered into South Carolina soil.
My husband was dead.
He had also left me controlling ownership of Mercer Global, several trusts, and an estate financial reporters estimated in the billions. For weeks after the funeral, distant relatives had appeared with advice, lawyers had appeared with concerns, and strangers online had accused me of marrying Gavin for his fortune.
Through all of it, Whitney had stayed beside me.
Then she introduced Dylan.
He was easygoing where Gavin had been intense, warm where Gavin had often seemed carved from granite. He brought groceries when I stopped eating, drove me to appointments, and sat beside me through sleepless nights without asking for anything.
At least, that was what I had believed.
More words flashed before my eyes.
THE RING IS WHITNEY’S SIZE.
DYLAN LOVES HER.
THREE DAYS UNTIL GAVIN RETURNS.
I almost laughed.
Instead, I took the ring from Dylan.
His face brightened.
Then I slid it onto Whitney’s finger.
It fit perfectly.
Dylan went pale.
Whitney jerked her hand back. “Cassidy, what are you doing?”
“Interesting,” I said.
Dylan stood too quickly. “I guessed the size. I was nervous.”
The glowing words changed.
EXACTLY WHAT HE WAS GOING TO SAY.
A cold sensation traveled down my spine.
Whitney removed the ring and thrust it toward me. “This is ridiculous. You and Dylan have been together for months.”
“We’ve had dinner.”
“You said you two fit together perfectly.”
“I never said that.”
Whitney hesitated.
It was barely noticeable, but after ten years of friendship, I knew every expression she made. This one was calculation.
Dylan stepped closer. “Cass, you’re grieving. Maybe this is too much all at once.”
“I’m not marrying you.”
His tenderness vanished so quickly that I wondered how I had ever believed in it.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
Whitney grabbed my arm. “Don’t throw away your future because you’re afraid to move on.”
Move on.
Gavin had hated that phrase.
He had been only two years older than I was, yet he behaved like a man born forty. He planned everything, worried about everything, and loved with an intensity that could become exhausting.
We had grown up together after his father became my mother’s business partner. Gavin had spent most of his childhood hovering three steps behind me, threatening boys who teased me and insisting I text him whenever I arrived somewhere safely.
At twenty-nine, he still worried.
On the morning of our wedding, he had taken my hands and said, “If anything ever happens to me, don’t let anyone convince you that you need them more than you need yourself.”
I had laughed.
“You’re talking like you’re eighty.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Stop trying to haunt me before you’re dead.”
That memory felt grotesque now.
Another line of glowing text floated across Whitney’s face.
SHE’S BEEN LYING ABOUT YOU TO HIM.
TELLING HIM YOU HATED HIS CONTROL.
TELLING HIM YOU MARRIED FOR MONEY.
My stomach tightened.
“Why are you so desperate for me to marry Dylan?” I asked.
Whitney stared.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
She gave an uneasy laugh. “Because you’re my best friend.”
“And?”
“And Gavin was… difficult.”
My pulse quickened.
“What does that mean?”
“You said it yourself. He controlled everything. Your clothes. Your schedule. Your friends.”
“I never said that.”
Whitney’s smile faded.
Dylan stepped between us. “You complained about him constantly.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Come on, Cass. You told us you were tired of being married to an old man.”
Gavin had once sulked for two days because somebody jokingly called him an old man at a charity dinner. The idea that I had repeated that insult after his death was so absurd that anger finally overwhelmed confusion.
“You should leave.”
Dylan caught my wrist. “Don’t do this.”
“Let go.”
Whitney touched his shoulder.
He released me reluctantly.
Then she said, “You need time. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“No. We won’t.”
Dylan gave a humorless laugh. “I’ve already reserved the venue.”
I stared at him.
“What venue?”
“For our wedding.”
My blood went cold.
“We were never engaged.”
“You were going to say yes.”
He said it with absolute confidence.
Not hope.
Expectation.
I looked from him to Whitney.
They had planned everything before asking me.
That evening, I returned alone to the waterfront mansion Gavin and I had shared outside Charleston. The staff occupied the lower level, but the upstairs belonged to silence.
I carried Gavin’s photograph into bed.
It was foolish, but the glowing words had frightened me more than I wanted to admit.
“Gavin,” I whispered into the dark, “if you can hear me, I never betrayed you.”
Nothing answered.
I pressed the photograph to my chest.
“I loved you when you were alive. I love you now.”
Eventually I slept.
In my dream, Gavin stood at the foot of the bed.
He looked wrong.
Too pale. Too thin. His dark eyes were bloodshot, his face sharpened by suffering.
“You lied to me,” he said.
“No.”
His hand closed around my throat.
I woke choking.
The room was empty.
Three days, the words had said.
I spent the next morning canceling Dylan’s reservations and posting a statement online declaring that there would be no wedding. Within hours, gossip accounts accused me of staging a publicity stunt.
Dylan told reporters I was overwhelmed with grief.
Whitney told mutual friends I was emotionally unstable.
My mother called.
“Come home,” she said. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I hadn’t told her about the floating messages. I knew how insane it sounded.
Still, I went.
Mom had prepared roast chicken, potatoes, green beans, and peach cobbler. My brother wasn’t there, which relieved me because we had barely spoken since I refused to finance his latest engagement.
I reached for my fork.
The golden words exploded across my vision.
DON’T EAT.
SHE PUT A SEDATIVE IN YOUR FOOD.
DYLAN PAID HER HALF A MILLION DOLLARS.
I slowly lowered my hand.
Mom noticed.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not marrying Dylan.”
Her expression hardened instantly.
“We’ve discussed this.”
“No. You’ve discussed it.”
“He is willing to marry a widow with all that baggage.”
“Baggage?”
“You know what people say about you.”
I stood.
Mom stood too.
“Sit down.”
“I’m leaving.”
She folded her arms. “Your brother needs help. Dylan is willing to become part of this family. You have more money than you could spend in ten lifetimes.”
“This isn’t about money.”
“It’s always about money when people have none.”
I turned toward the doorway.
The room tilted.
My knees weakened.
I caught the back of a chair.
Mom watched me with an expression I will never forget.
Not surprise.
Satisfaction.
“You shouldn’t have been so stubborn.”
My legs collapsed.
As darkness closed around me, I heard her voice above me.
“Sometimes a mother has to make decisions her daughter is too foolish to make.”
When I opened my eyes again, I was wearing a white wedding dress.
Two days had disappeared.
My arms felt heavy, my mouth tasted metallic, and someone was dragging a brush through my hair.
Whitney stood behind me.
“You’re awake.”
I tried to stand.
My legs barely responded.
“What did you do?”
“We’re helping you.”
“You drugged me.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
A church organ began playing somewhere beyond the room.
Then I saw him.
Through the open doorway, beyond rows of guests and white roses, a tall man stood near the back of the chapel dressed entirely in black.
He had Gavin’s face.
The dead man was staring straight at me.
