Substitute Marriage: My Lethal Comatose Husband

The air inside the carved mahogany closet was thick enough to chew.

Seven-year-old Avalon Kensington pressed her spine against the back panel, her small hands clamped over her own mouth. Her lungs burned. Every breath she dragged in tasted like ash and copper.

Heavy, rapid footsteps thudded against the hardwood floor of the second-floor hallway. The sound vibrated through the soles of her shoes.

A deafening crash shattered the silence. The antique porcelain vase in the corridor exploded into a thousand pieces against the wall.

Her mother, Cecilia, stumbled backward into the master bedroom. Blood soaked the front of her white silk blouse, sticking the fabric to her skin. She was gasping, her chest heaving violently as she threw her weight against the heavy mahogany door.

Cecilia's hands slipped on the brass lock, slick with her own blood, but she managed to force the deadbolt into place.

"Open the damn door, Cecilia!" Bronson Burnett's roar bled through the wood, feral and raw.

A massive impact hit the door. The doorframe groaned, the wood splintering under the force.

Cecilia didn't look at the door. She lunged toward the closet. She yanked the door open just enough to shove her blood-soaked hand over Avalon's face, pressing her fingers hard against the girl's lips.

"Do not make a sound," Cecilia whispered, her voice a wet, ragged wheeze. "No matter what happens. Do not breathe."

Another violent crash. The mahogany door gave way, the hinges tearing out of the frame.

Bronson stepped into the room. He held a brass letter opener in his right hand. The sharp metal edge dripped crimson onto the Persian rug.

Cecilia didn't hesitate. She threw herself at Bronson, her fingernails clawing at his face, trying to buy her daughter seconds.

Bronson didn't even flinch. He swung his arm. The brass letter opener sank deep into Cecilia's abdomen.

Cecilia's body folded. She collapsed onto the rug, her blood pooling into the intricate woven patterns. Her eyes rolled toward the crack in the closet door, locking onto Avalon's hiding spot. Her gaze was a silent, desperate command to stay hidden.

Bronson sneered. He stepped right over Cecilia's twitching body and walked to the wall safe. He tore through the files, his hands moving frantically until he found the thick manila envelope he wanted.

Bronson grabbed Cecilia by the ankle first. He dragged her limp body across the floor, dumping her unceremoniously into the center of the Persian rug. He pulled a windproof lighter from his pocket. The metal lid clicked open with a sharp snap. He grabbed a decorative bottle of high-proof liquor from the bedside table, shattering it over the rug around her. He held the flame to the soaked fibers. The alcohol caught instantly. Fire raced across the floor, feeding on the oxygen in the room and rapidly surrounding her body. Black smoke began to fill the space, choking the air as the flames spread outward toward the heavy velvet curtains.

He watched the flames consume the evidence for three seconds, then turned and walked out, pulling the broken door shut behind him.

Inside the closet, Avalon's vision went black at the edges. Her throat closed up. She couldn't pull air into her lungs. The heat blistered her skin through the wood. She was going to die here.

Suddenly, the heavy glass of the bedroom window shattered inward.

Arthur Vance, the estate's old groundskeeper, tumbled into the room. He was draped in a soaking wet wool blanket, coughing violently as the smoke hit his lungs.

"Avalon!" Arthur screamed, his voice cracking over the roar of the fire.

Avalon pushed against the closet door with the last ounce of strength in her arms. She fell forward onto the burning floor.

Arthur lunged. He scooped her up, wrapping the heavy, wet blanket tightly around her small body.

He didn't look back. He carried her to the shattered window and threw them both out, plummeting toward the swimming pool below.

The icy water hit them like concrete. The world went completely dark.

Fifteen years later.

The smell of cheap motor oil and rust replaced the memory of smoke.

Avalon Kensington, who now went by the name Lana Hicks, stood in front of a cracked mirror inside a rundown auto repair shop in Pennsylvania.

She held a large, hyper-realistic prosthetic birthmark in her hands. The silicone was dyed a deep, angry red. She carefully aligned the edges with the right side of her face, pressing it into her skin until the seams vanished.

She stared at the ugly, disfigured girl in the mirror. Her pulse was slow. Her hands didn't shake.

Lana walked out of the back room of the garage, grabbing a rag stained black with grease.

She moved toward a rusted Ford pickup truck parked in the center bay. She leaned over the hood, her muscles working mechanically as she scrubbed at a stubborn oil stain on the metal.

Arthur Vance walked over, rolling a heavy tire. He stopped and let out two harsh, rattling coughs.

Lana dropped the rag instantly. She walked to the workbench, poured a cup of lukewarm water from a plastic pitcher, and handed it to him. Her eyes scanned his pale face.

Arthur drank the water, his chest heaving slightly. He lowered his voice so the sound wouldn't carry past the open garage doors.

"What's the status on the dark web sweep?" he asked.

"I've locked onto the Thorne family's recent financial crisis," Lana said, her tone casual, completely devoid of the tension in her shoulders. "They're bleeding capital."

A low, aggressive engine roar cut through the quiet hum of the rust-belt town.

Lana and Arthur both turned their heads toward the open bay doors.

Three black, bulletproof Cadillac Escalades rolled to a stop in the dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of dry dust. The vehicles looked like alien spaceships against the backdrop of peeling paint and rusted scrap metal.

Lana's spine instantly curved. She dropped her shoulders, letting her posture slump. The sharp, calculating light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a wide, fearful stare.

The door of the middle Escalade opened. Mr. Hayes, a man in a tailored three-piece suit, stepped out.

He immediately pulled a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it over his nose, his eyes scanning the filthy garage with raw disgust.

His gaze landed on Lana. He took in the grease smeared across her forehead and the massive red birthmark covering half her face. His upper lip curled.

He walked up to her, stopping three feet away as if her poverty was contagious.

"You are Lana Hicks," Mr. Hayes said. It wasn't a question.

Lana shrank back, her hands twisting the dirty rag. "Y-yes, sir," she stuttered, her voice trembling perfectly.

Mr. Hayes pulled a thick, leather-bound folder from his briefcase. "I am here on behalf of Declan Thorne. He has an order for you."

He didn't bother softening the blow. He told her she had been selected to fulfill a marriage contract.

Lana gasped, her eyes widening in feigned horror. She reached out and grabbed Arthur's arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve. "No, I can't leave! I don't even know them!"

Mr. Hayes let out a short, mocking laugh. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a piece of paper.

He held it up. It was a cashier's check for one million dollars.

"This is more money than you or anyone in this pathetic town will see in ten lifetimes," Mr. Hayes said, shaking the paper slightly.

Lana's entire demeanor shifted. She let her jaw drop. She stared at the check, letting a sickening, desperate greed wash over her features. She played the part of the money-hungry country girl flawlessly.

Arthur stepped forward, his face flushed with genuine anger. "You're buying and selling a human being! You tell Declan he's a monster!"

Mr. Hayes ignored him completely. He kept his eyes on Lana. "This is your biological father's final ultimatum. Take it, or rot here."

Lana bit her lower lip, pretending to wage a massive internal war. Then, she snatched the check from his fingers.

She lowered her head, her voice small but eager. "I'll go with you."

Mr. Hayes smirked, his disgust fully validated. He turned on his heel and walked back to the Escalade, waving a hand for her to follow.

Lana turned to Arthur. She threw her arms around his neck.

In the fraction of a second her body blocked Mr. Hayes's line of sight, her fingers slipped a micro-communicator deep into Arthur's jacket pocket.

"Take care of the old engine," she whispered into his ear, her voice ice-cold and steady, using the exact coded phrase they had pre-arranged to confirm the operation was proceeding flawlessly.

She pulled away, grabbed her frayed canvas duffel bag, and walked toward the luxury SUV. The townspeople stared in shock as she climbed into the leather interior.

The heavy door slammed shut. The Escalades pulled out of the dirt lot, speeding toward the East Coast.

The Escalade tires crunched over the pristine white gravel of the Thorne estate driveway hours later.

The door opened. Lana stepped out, her worn canvas bag clutched tightly to her chest. She kept her head down, letting her shoulders hunch forward.

A butler in a stiff uniform led her through the massive oak front doors. The light from the crystal chandelier in the foyer hit her eyes, making her squint.

Brenda Thorne sat on a velvet sofa in the center of the living room, a porcelain teacup in her hand.

The moment Brenda saw Lana, her face contorted. She set the teacup down hard, her eyes raking over Lana's cheap clothes and the glaring red birthmark.

Tiffany and Brittany, Lana's half-sisters, walked down the sweeping marble staircase. They pointed at Lana's face, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings.

Lana let her knees tremble slightly. She stared at the floor, playing the terrified victim. Her fingers tightened anxiously on the frayed strap of her canvas bag, her thumb discreetly pressing a small, hard button hidden deep within the seam. The microscopic recording device instantly activated, capturing every word echoing in the foyer.

Declan Thorne walked out of his study. He didn't even look at Lana's face. He stopped a few feet away, his hands in his pockets.

"You will take Tiffany's place," Declan said, his voice devoid of any warmth. "You will marry the heir of the Montgomery family."

Lana looked up, blinking rapidly. "Why... why me?"

Tiffany sneered, crossing her arms. "Because Sterling Montgomery is a vegetable. He's going to die any day now, and I'm not spending my youth playing nurse to a corpse."

Brenda smoothed her skirt. "The Montgomery trust fund has a stipulation. The funds remain locked until he marries. You are going to unlock that money for us."

Declan took a step closer, his tone turning lethal. "You have no right to refuse. I gave you life. This is how you pay me back."

Lana's stomach turned, but she forced tears into her eyes. "Please, don't do this to me," she begged, her voice cracking.

Declan waved his hand dismissively at the butler. "Take her to the guest room. Lock the door. I don't want her trying to run."

The butler grabbed Lana by the arm, dragging her up the stairs and down a long, dimly lit hallway to the furthest room.

He shoved her inside. The heavy door slammed shut. The deadbolt clicked loudly into place.

Lana stood in the center of the room. She waited ten seconds.

The tears vanished. Her spine snapped straight. The pathetic, fearful girl was gone, replaced by a predator assessing its cage.

She walked over to her canvas bag and unzipped a hidden compartment. She pulled out a device that looked exactly like a cheap tube of lipstick.

She twisted the base. A faint red laser emitted from the tip. She swept the room, scanning the walls, the ceiling, and the furniture for bugs and hidden cameras.

The device vibrated against her palm when she pointed it at the base of the bedside lamp.

Lana walked over. She didn't dismantle the listening device. Instead, she peeled a microscopic audio-jamming sticker from her fingernail and pressed it directly over the microphone.

She sat on the edge of the mattress. She unbuckled her cheap plastic watch, pulling a hair-thin data cable from beneath the dial. She plugged it into the charging port of her phone.

The screen instantly went black, then filled with lines of complex, encrypted code.

She typed a sequence of commands, opening a secure channel.

"Phoenix," Elon Gutierrez's voice came through the speaker, crisp and professional.

"I need everything you have on Sterling Montgomery's trust fund," Lana ordered, her voice hard. "And his medical records. Now."

"Understood," Elon replied.

Lana unplugged the cable. She walked to the window, looking down at the security guards patrolling the manicured lawns.

A cold smile touched the corners of her mouth. "Let the games begin, Declan."