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Secret Wife is A Hero Novel Cover

Secret Wife is A Hero

I was Asset 7, a "ghost" kept in a high-security facility with no memory and paralyzed vocal cords. My only value was my silence, making me the perfect disposable tool for the world's elite. Everything changed when I was sold to Culver Lancaster, a media billionaire drugged with a dangerous synthetic aphrodisiac. His staff needed a woman who couldn't talk, couldn't sue, and didn't exist in any official directory. They scrubbed my skin raw like a piece of meat and threw me into a dark penthouse with a man who had lost his mind to the drug. Culver didn't treat me like a human; he choked me against a door and used my body as a shield against his own madness. When I tried to run, his security hunted me down with dogs, and Culver threw me into a freezing wine cellar. I spent days in total darkness, starving and dehydrated, lapping dirty water off the floor just to stay alive. I lay on that cold stone, wondering why my life had become a series of cages and scars. I couldn't even scream to let the world know I was dying. How could a man claim to protect me while treating me like a disposable object? But when Culver finally came to the cellar to feed me, I didn't surrender. I bit him hard enough to draw blood, watching the shock in his eyes as I communicated the only way I could. Now, I wear the silk uniform and the velvet mask he bought for me, playing the role of his obedient "Shadow." Culver thinks he owns a broken girl he can lock in a velvet panic room, but I'm a weapon who just found her target. Every kiss is a reconnaissance mission, and I'm going to burn his empire to the ground.
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Chapter 7

The wine cellar was a tomb.

There was no light, save for a thin strip of grey that filtered through a ventilation grate near the ceiling.

Arla sat in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest.

Time dissolved.

Was it day? Night?

Her throat was sandpaper. She crawled to the stone wall, licking the condensation that gathered on the rough bricks.

Upstairs, in the study, Culver watched the night-vision feed.

"Thirty-six hours, sir," Julian said. "She's dehydrated. She could go into shock."

Culver stared at the screen. Arla was huddled in the fetal position, but she wasn't rocking or thrashing, she was unnervingly still.

"She hasn't begged," Culver said.

He spun his pen between his fingers. But looking at her wasted frame, he felt a twinge of something that wasn't anger.

Day three.

Arla lay on the floor. She didn't have the energy to move.

A beam of light cut through the dark. Culver's face appeared, framed by the metal rectangle.

"Do you want to come out?" he asked.

Arla lifted her head, it took everything she had. She looked at him, her eyes glassy. She didn't nod.

Culver slammed his hand against the metal.He thought he would feel triumph, but he felt a sharp stab in his chest.

He slammed the slot shut and walked away.

Arla lay her cheek against the wet stone. A tear leaked out, not sadness, it's hate.

If I live, she thought, I will burn your world down.

Hours later, the door opened fully.

Culver stood there. He held a silver tray with a bowl of steaming broth.

He walked in. He crouched down beside her.

"Drink," he said. He lifted the spoon to her lips.

Arla looked at the spoon. Then at his hand.

She lunged.

She sank her teeth into the fleshy part of his palm, biting down with every ounce of strength she had left. She channeled the last dregs of her energy into that single, defiant act. The world swam in black spots the moment she let go, her body finally giving out completely.

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