The Discarded Heiress Marrying My Lethal Husband

The rain in Detroit didn't wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker.

Kaela Moon stood under the rusted awning of a pawn shop on 8 Mile, water dripping from the frayed hem of her flannel shirt. She shivered, not from the cold, but from the calculated effort to look pathetic. She shifted her weight, letting her shoulders slump, her posture shrinking inside the oversized, stained work coat she'd bought at a Goodwill an hour ago.

A Lincoln Navigator, stretched and blacked out, rolled through the intersection. It looked like a shark swimming in a sewer. It slowed, tires crushing a discarded soda can, and pulled up to the curb.

The window rolled down three inches.

Miller, the Moon family's driver for the past twenty years, looked out. His eyes scanned her boots-caked in mud-up to her wet, stringy hair. He didn't hide his disgust. He wrinkled his nose as if he could smell the poverty on her through the rain.

He didn't unlock the door. He honked. A short, sharp blast.

Get in, trash.

Kaela gripped the strap of her canvas bag. She ran toward the car, splashing through a puddle she could have easily stepped over. She fumbled with the handle, her fingers slipping on the wet metal, playing the part of the clumsy, overwhelmed country girl.

The lock clicked. She pulled the heavy door open and scrambled inside.

The moment the door thundered shut, Miller hit a button. The privacy partition slid up with a mechanical whir. Then came the hiss of an aerosol can. He was spraying air freshener in the front seat.

Kaela sat back against the leather. It was soft, smelling of conditioned hide and old money. She pushed her wet bangs out of her eyes. In the reflection of the darkened window, the fear vanished from her face. Her eyes, moments ago wide and watery, went dead flat.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a burner phone. It looked like a cheap, outdated relic, but the internals were gutted and rebuilt with military-grade hardware. Her thumbs flew over the keypad, entering a command line blindly.

Terminal active.

She leaned forward, pressing her ear slightly toward the partition. Miller was on the phone. The Bluetooth connection was sloppy; the audio bled through the gap.

"...picked up the cargo," Miller said. "Yeah. 8 Mile. She looks like a drowned rat."

A pause.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Moon. We're taking the scenic route. Under the I-94 overpass. The boys are waiting. Just a scare. Make sure she knows her place before she gets on that bird."

Kaela sat back. A small, cold smile touched her lips.

She reached up to her messy bun. Her fingers found the silver hairpin holding the chaos together. It was titanium alloy with a sterling silver coating, tapered to a needle point, disguised as a cheap trinket. She pulled it out. Her dark hair tumbled down her back. She twirled the pin between her knuckles.

The car slowed. The rhythm of the tires changed from the hum of asphalt to the crunch of gravel. The streetlights vanished, replaced by the oppressive shadows of concrete pillars.

Miller spun the wheel. The Lincoln lurched, swinging into the darkness beneath a decommissioned overpass. He slammed the brakes.

The engine died.

Kaela heard the click of Miller's seatbelt, the pop of the driver's door, and the slam. Then, the distinct thud-thud of the child locks engaging on the rear doors.

She was trapped.

She waited three seconds, then started screaming.

"Hello? Miller? What's happening?" She threw herself against the window, slapping the glass with her palms. "Open the door!"

Outside, Miller lit a cigarette. The cherry glowed in the dark. He laughed.

Headlights flared to life. Three modified pickup trucks boxed the limo in. Six men stepped out of the shadows. They wore ski masks and carried baseball bats wrapped in chains. They moved with the loose, confident swagger of men who knew no one was coming to help.

"Don't kill her," Miller shouted over the rain. "Just break her spirit. Mrs. Moon wants her shaking when she boards the plane."

The leader of the group, a man the size of a vending machine, stepped up to the rear passenger window. He swung a tire iron.