The Phantom Wife He Cannot Save

The walk-in closet was a temple of couture. Cheyenne stood before the full-length mirror, the scarlet Valentino gown pooled at her feet. She ran a hand over the silk, a covetous smile on her face.

"Aracely had no taste," she murmured to her reflection. "This is a masterpiece."

Don't wear it, Aracely's soul screamed in silence. Don't fall for it.

But Cheyenne was already stepping into the dress. It fit her like a second skin, the vibrant red a stark contrast to her dark hair. It was a dress that demanded attention, a dress of power and seduction.

Aracely closed her spectral eyes in despair. The trap was sprung.

Cheyenne walked into the bedroom, striking a pose. Keenan was by the window, a thin stream of smoke curling up from a cigarette. He turned.

His eyes landed on the red dress, and the air in the room instantly turned to ice. The lazy indifference in his posture vanished, replaced by a rigid, violent stillness.

Cheyenne, oblivious, twirled. "How do I look?"

He crushed the cigarette out in a crystal ashtray. In two long strides, he was in front of her. His hand shot out and clamped onto her jaw, his fingers digging into her skin.

Pain and shock flashed in Cheyenne's eyes. "Keenan, you're hurting me-"

"Cheyenne," he snarled. The name was a gunshot in the quiet room.

Her face went slack with terror. The color drained from her cheeks, leaving her looking like a ghost in a blood-red dress.

He knows, Aracely thought, a wild, terrible surge of vindication rising within her. He knew all along.

"What are you talking about?" Cheyenne stammered, trying to wrench her face away. "I'm Aracely..."

A harsh, ugly laugh escaped him. He shoved her backward, and she stumbled, landing in a heap on the sofa. He loomed over her, his hands braced on either side of her head, trapping her.

"Aracely would rather walk through fire than wear that dress," he bit out, his voice a low, menacing growl. "I remember her screaming at the designer that it was cursed. The color of a wound."

The charade was over. Cheyenne's fear morphed into pure venom. "Fine! Yes! I'm Cheyenne! So what? Your precious wife is gone! Run off to God knows where!"

Keenan straightened up, his composure returning with chilling speed. He adjusted his cufflinks, once again the untouchable businessman. "If you want to be her so badly," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "then you can continue."

Cheyenne stared at him, confused.

He walked to his desk and opened his laptop, his fingers flying across the keyboard. He pulled up a credit card statement. "Her last charge was to a private clinic. An amount large enough for a significant surgical procedure."

Aracely's soul drifted closer. It was the down payment for her own murder.

Keenan picked up his phone, dialed the clinic, and put it on speaker.

"I'm inquiring about a patient," he said, his voice clipped. "Aracely Walter."

A nurse's hesitant voice came through the line. "Sir, I can't release patient information... but let me check. Ms. Walter... yes, she was scheduled for a critical procedure today. But... there was an incident."

Keenan's hand, holding the phone, tightened until his knuckles were white. For the first time since this nightmare began, a crack appeared in his iron control. A flicker of raw, genuine panic.

"What kind of incident?" he demanded.