ALLURA'S POV
The rhythmic beeping of medical machines slowly pulled my consciousness back, dragging me from a murky, painful darkness. The blurry images in my vision steadied and sharpened. I scanned the vast space—it was clearly a hospital ward, but there was no attendant, no nurse, just me, the empty, eerily quiet room, and the incessant machine.
I tried to sit up, but a sharp, brutal throbbing shot through my head, a pain like a scorpion's sting. "God, that was brutal," I muttered, taking in the luxurious room. It was furnished beyond belief; not even a five-star hospital could compare to how organized and plush it was. "Am I in heaven?"
"No, you're not in heaven, but you might be on the other side of hell, depending on how well you answer my question, Miss Allura Frost, or should I say former Mrs. Dawson."
The same man from yesterday replied, his voice slicing through the silence and making me jump. He wore a crisp white long-sleeve button-down shirt with the sleeves folded, black suit pants with white piping, and sleek black shoes. His medium-length wolf-cut bangs were pulled back into a neat ponytail, revealing an undercut. His height and sharp tailoring made him look majestic, like a king.
"Oh, hi. I told you, I'm not part of whatever or whosoever you called yesterday," I replied, my voice raspy.
He paced towards me, his steps deliberately slow, a predator circling its prey. "You expect me to believe that, Mrs. Dawson? Especially when your husband is a close ally of Lucas Turner?"
The use of "Dawson" irritated me; he must have looked me up and knew the situation. "I am Allura Frost, not Dawson. I suggest that from now on, I am addressed as Frost."
"Why the change?" he asked, suddenly gripping my cheek, his fingers tight and cold. "Is it because you plan to set me up?"
"Enough!" I screamed, slapping his hand away. "That is enough! I am Allura Frost, the one and only heiress to the Frost Corporation, and I am not a Dawson."
"Answer the question!" His teeth gritted, his jaw tight, his fist clenching by his side. "Who set you up to this?"
I sighed, mentally face-palming. This wound on my back was agonizing, and here he was, accusing me of being a spy. "I am not with him," I admitted, emphasizing every word. "You can interrogate me all you want, but if I see a way to make the Dawsons' life a living hell, I would give up my freedom to make sure I do it."
He smirked, a slow, utterly devious curl of his lip that made me shiver, wondering what dark idea was forming. "I'm not an assassin, so you can stop thinking of several ways to extract information from me," I warned, trying to adjust my position. The bullet wound was killing me. "I'll be out of your hair before you even know it."
"Oh, I'm not trying to kill you, but you'll find out soon enough. Lunch is in a few minutes, so wash up and come down." He walked out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.
I scratched the back of my head, thoughts spinning. Is he trying to kill me? Who eats lunch in a stranger's house?
My stomach growled a sharp, loud answer to the question, but I stubbornly continued to ignore the hunger.
The room felt boring and eerily quiet, so I took the remote from the desk, switching on the television. The thing I saw shattered me. On the headline was the news: "ALLURA FROST, HEIRESS AND WIFE OF THE CEO OF FROST GROUP, HAD DIED IN GANG SHOOT-OUT WHILE SHOPPING IN THE MALL."
My head ached, my vision swirling, but I steadied myself, gripping the remote. "That darn bastard!" I cursed, tears running down my cheek. "After selling me to the Mafia, he's out there telling the world that I'm dead. Magnus Dawson, you'll get what's coming to you."
I sobbed, wishing I had spent my three years effectively and wisely on something else, like achieving a greater height in my career, rather than dimming it for the shine of Magnus.
SEVERAL HOURS LATER
I couldn't calculate how long I'd slept on the same bed and in the same sheets. It felt strangely comfortable here, with my fate uncertain, compared to that familiar mansion where it was certain I'd be killed one day, either by Magnus or by the systematic maltreatment I was subjected to.
I stood up from the bed in an oversized hospital gown that covered my knees, its sleeves longer than my fingers. I was so thirsty and parched that I had to walk downstairs to get water for myself, or perhaps call someone to get it for me.
The hallway was eerily quiet: no kids, no servants, no sign of human life around. Just a huge hallway with closed black curtains and a faint glow of light penetrating through the fabric. I ran my hand over the wall, making my way towards the stairs when suddenly, I heard a voice coming from the room opposite me. Curiosity got the best of me, and I was compelled to listen.
"Boss, the old Giovanni has said if you don't get married, he will give your position to that bastard Lucas Turner," a man's voice said. Almost immediately, there was a loud crash from inside.
"I'll get married only if I find the right candidate to pretend to be my wife, and I can't let my father's legacy and mother's hard work fall into the hands of a scoundrel like Lucas Turner."
"Can't you get the woman from earlier to pretend to be your fiancée? I mean, look at her—she's got those eyes, that cheekbone structure, and height," the first man suggested.
"I can't just choose random people. Just because I need someone to pretend doesn't mean I'd choose almost everyone who comes out of the blue," the deeper voice replied. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed in my direction, and he held a gun, pointing it toward the door. "Come out of hiding, Miss Frost."
I quickly came out, putting my hands up above my head. "I'm sorry to have eavesdropped on your conversation," I apologized, but the man wouldn't stop sizing me up.
He looked over at the other man in the room, and the subordinate immediately left. "You've heard quite enough, haven't you? Well, there's no need to keep you around."
My heart jumped into my throat. Fear gripped me as he kept the gun constantly pointed at my face. "Please don't kill me! I can help you with the succession. I'll play your wife, but in return, I need your help to destroy the Dawson family."
He walked closer to me, leaning in until his breath ghosted my ear. "You think I'll agree to your crafty arrangement?"
"It's not like you have a choice. I'm your only hope of securing that succession, but in return, I need protection in order to get rid of the Dawsons and make them pay for hurting me."
He heaved a sigh, lessening his grip on my chin. "Well said, Miss Allura. You've got a deal, but if you must know, I'm not an easy man to please."
I looked him in the eyes; his blues swirled like an ocean of emotions he was desperately trying to hide. "It's no problem. I can handle anything you'd throw at me. First, if I'm marrying you, I think your name would suffice all other introductions."
"I'm Xavier Giovanni Jr.," he introduced, his tone laced with sarcasm. "It's going to be a difficult cooperation, and I do hope you enjoy the rest of our arrangement." He smirked devilishly, and that had to be the most beautiful smirk I'd ever seen. "Also, by evening, my secretary will draw up the necessary contract, and someone will give you a tour of the house."
Suddenly, my stomach growled, creating an awkward silence, but he simply stared ice daggers at me. "Madison, get her something to eat," he said in a cold, baritone voice to the elderly woman who stood silently beside me, making me wonder where she had just popped out of the blue from.
I was utterly puzzled. Was I hearing things? Xavier Giovanni, the most ruthless playboy and a silent killer rumored to control even politics. I had just landed a contract marriage with a total stranger who ran the most violent group in the UK.