Buried Alive With My Fake Husband

t pressed against her eyel

arving ache. She tried to inhale, to pull in a deep breath, but the air

ied to

h

to something hard. Wood

e fog in her brain. She reached up. Her hands didn't find open space. They found

ep in. It explod

a trapped bird. Her throat constricted. S

the sides. Satin.

as bu

t down. It tasted like bile. If she screamed, she would us

ed in the dark and

od. No

es

pe. A shoulder. A stiff, wool suit jacket. A tie clip

dr

d. Her fak

my, like refrigerated dough. She pressed her fingers

th

a

tic, barely there, but it was

cer Memorial Gala. Not a funeral, but a lavish fundraiser in her name. The

phine. To new

Acrid and bitter. Not like alm

oxin? A sedative mix

em. She put them in a box. She was goi

ow. A string quartet playing a somber adag

er own memor

ough. She would finish the job. She would say it was a muscle spasm, a final rele

ne Spencer, the heires

he white walls. The screaming in the night. The wa

. Hard. The metallic taste of blood f

clawed at her hair, tangling it, pulling it until h

's upper lip, right into the

p," she

. He was dead

was

amping in the tight space. She positione

Thump

cked a

topped. The murmuri

cked h

P. T

hat?" A woman's voice.

a's voice cut through. Smooth. calm. "Please

asn't goi

channeled every ounce of terror, eve

lp-me scream. A guttur

upward with eve

aned. The la

gh

nk. She widened her eyes until they felt dry and raw. S

ady to put