On the day she married the impoverished student his father had sponsored for eight years, Linnea Carrington received a wedding she would never forget—though she would spend the rest of her life wishing she could.
The wedding march she had carefully chosen was replaced by the desperate screams of her father, broadcast live as he dangled from a helicopter.
When they exchanged rings, the box did not hold gold bands but two severed fragments of her mother’s pinky fingers.
On the massive screen, the sweet montage she had spent three sleepless nights editing vanished, replaced by a high-definition, uncensored private video of her and Soren Duvall.
She watched her father fight free of his bindings only to plunge hundreds of meters, his body shattering on impact.
Her mother, shrieking and unconscious, tumbled down the church steps—blood pooling at Linnea’s feet, soaking into her wedding gown.
Linnea screamed until her voice frayed, until all she could force out was one broken word.
“Soren… why…”
Why had the man she’d loved for three years become the executioner who destroyed her family? Why ruin her life on the day she was closest to happiness?
Soren’s gaze was black ice.
He drew his gun, pressing the muzzle against her temple.
“Do you remember Ellie Duvall? The girl you bullied—the one who killed herself? She was my sister.”
His voice was low, steady, lethal. “I never loved you. From the beginning, I was here for revenge.”
His finger tightened on the trigger—then stilled.
Death, he said, would be too merciful. He wanted her alive. Alive to suffer, to endure the same hell he had for eight years.
Until death, there would be no peace.
In public, he played the doting husband, admired by society. In private, he forced her to kneel before his sister’s memorial tablet day and night, stripping her of all dignity.
“Unless you die,” he told her, “this never ends.”
But Linnea truly was dying.
---
“Miss Carrington, advanced leukemia is agony,” the doctor had said. “If you refuse treatment…”
She’d vomited blood into the sink that morning, staring at the pale, hollow-eyed stranger in the mirror—a far cry from the Red Rose Linnea who had once ruled Kingsport’s social scene.
Five years of marriage to Soren had drained the color from her life, her body, her soul.
She wiped her tears and smiled bitterly. Pain? She had forgotten what it meant not to hurt.
If death came, it might almost feel like mercy.
She had just stepped out of the bathroom when one of Soren’s bodyguards blocked her path, pressing a gun to her waist.
“Tonight’s auction is important,” he said flatly. “Don’t try anything—unless you want your mother in the asylum to suffer something… unimaginable.”
Her heart clenched.
Five years ago, he had spent 200 million dollars on their wedding, the city awash with rumors of his devotion. No one knew that behind closed doors, it had been the start of her nightmare.
Remembering her father’s broken body, Linnea’s fists curled, nails biting into her palms.
The bodyguards escorted her to a dim private room—where Elowen Vale, her closest friend and her parents’ beloved goddaughter, straddled Soren’s lap. One manicured hand rested low on his waist, and her soft moan filled the air.
Soren had once seemed untouchable, aloof from the women who chased him. On the day of his proposal, he had sworn on live broadcast: “Linnea, I will love you for life. A lifetime.”
But after the wedding, he surrounded himself only with women Linnea loved and trusted—her relatives, her dearest friends—seducing each of them until she was forced to witness every betrayal.
Once, she had even handed him the condom.
Every vow had been a lie, spun solely to destroy her.
She had learned to meet his cruelty with silence, her heartbreak cooling into numb resignation. But seeing Elowen here still cut like a blade to the ribs.
The pain stole her breath.
Only when Elowen was panting from the exertion of her performance did Soren glance up at Linnea.
“I gave you three minutes,” he said coldly. “You’re late.”
Her body trembled.
He didn’t need to say more. She knelt without protest, moving toward him on her knees.
He ignored her, tossing a whip to Elowen.
“You wanted that last piece of jewelry from the auction, didn’t you? Each strike earns you one item.”
Elowen’s smile was cruel. She swung.
The chili-oil-soaked lash bit deep. Linnea gasped, her tears spilling fast.
Once, she had promised this girl, “Elowen, don’t be afraid. From today, I’m your sister. My parents are your parents.”
Now that same girl struck her with glee.
Eighteen lashes later, Linnea lay shivering on the floor while Elowen crowed over her prize.
But Soren’s smile vanished as he snapped, “You’re just as stupid as Linnea.”
Bodyguards dragged Elowen away. Moments later, her screams echoed through the door.
...
Soren knelt beside Linnea, dressing her in a gown whose delicate lace clung painfully to her wounds.
“Soren…” she rasped. “Will you only let me go when I’m dead?”
“Dead?” He gripped her chin. “You don’t deserve it.”
Lifting her into his arms, he whispered, “You’ll enjoy tonight’s auction.”
Down the spiral staircase they went, her body trembling in his hold.
The announcer’s voice boomed: “The auction of Mr. Carrington and his wife’s belongings begins now!”
Linnea’s hands shook uncontrollably.
