My Unwanted Wife Is A Top Assassin

The walk down the aisle was a walk through a field of silent judgment. The drama in the dressing room had been swiftly contained. Hephzibah was discreetly escorted away, her sudden "illness" attributed to a bad reaction to shellfish. But whispers followed Eliza like a shadow as her father, Earl, walked her across the perfectly manicured lawn. She saw him standing by the floral arch. Julian. He was in his formal military dress uniform, a cascade of medals on his chest. He looked impossibly handsome, and as cold and remote as a distant star. When her father placed her hand in Julian's, his touch was brief, his fingers cool and stiff. It was like handling a live grenade. The ceremony was a farce. Julian recited his vows in a clipped, monotone voice, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder. He was completing a mission, nothing more. When the officiant asked, "Do you, Julian, take this woman..." he paused. The silence stretched for a full five seconds. The air grew thick with tension. Every guest held their breath. Finally, he spoke, the two words sounding like a death sentence. "I do." When it was her turn, Eliza answered immediately, her voice clear and steady. It was a business transaction. She was confirming the terms. He slid the ring onto her finger with a rough, impatient movement. The kiss was a brief, bloodless press of lips against hers, over before it truly began. At the reception, the fragile peace shattered. Beatrice Malone cornered her son near the champagne fountain, her voice a furious, sibilant whisper that carried across the lawn. Eliza stood alone, an island in a sea of hostility, watching the confrontation. "You cannot let this stand, Julian! You will not allow this... this creature to carry the Malone name for one day longer than necessary!" Beatrice's voice rose, shedding any pretense of discretion. "I will not have it! If you don't have your lawyers start the annulment process by Monday, I will freeze your trust fund. You won't see another dime." Julian's father, Harrison, stood beside his wife, his expression a tacit agreement. "This marriage is a political liability, son. A liability we must neutralize." Julian's face was a thundercloud. He despised Eliza, but the raw, controlling power of his mother's threat clearly infuriated him. The Malone family was imploding in public, and the guests were eating it up, their eyes wide with morbid curiosity. That's when Brenda Solis moved. She marched across the lawn, her jaw set, her cheap dress looking like armor. She planted herself in front of Beatrice, a small, fierce lioness protecting her cub. "My daughter," Brenda said, her voice shaking but firm, "is Mrs. Malone now. It's legal. It's done." Beatrice let out a laugh that sounded like breaking glass. "Legal? My dear woman, in our world, the law is merely a suggestion." Brenda took a deep breath. She pulled out her worn smartphone. "Maybe the law is," she said, her voice suddenly as cold as steel. "But a story is a story." She held up her phone, showing a half-written text message on the screen. "I don't know much, but I know people love drama. A war hero... his rich mom cuts him off 'cause his new wife ain't good enough... I bet some reporter on the internet would pay good money for a tip like that. You want to see if I'm right?" The effect was instantaneous. Beatrice's face went slack with shock. Harrison's eyes widened. They didn't care about Eliza's feelings, but they cared deeply about public perception, stock prices, and political capital. Julian was on the cusp of a major promotion. A story like that would be poison. Harrison was the first to recover. He stepped forward, placing a placating hand on his wife's arm. He looked at Brenda, truly looked at her, for the first time. He saw not a piece of trailer trash, but a threat. "Beatrice is just... emotional. She loves her son," he said, forcing a smile. "Of course, we welcome Eliza to the family." He raised his glass to the guests, making a toast to the happy couple, his voice booming with false cheer. The storm had passed, for now. Julian shot a look at Eliza and her mother, a look that was impossible to read but held no warmth. Without a word, he turned and walked away, disappearing into a crowd of uniformed colleagues. Brenda's shoulders slumped in relief. She grabbed Eliza's hand, her palm slick with cold sweat. "You're on your own now, baby girl," she whispered, her voice trembling. Eliza looked at her mother's brave, terrified face. And for the first time since waking up in this new world, she felt something stir within her. A flicker of warmth, alien and unfamiliar, in the cold, hard core of Nyx. The warmth was a foreign sensation. Eliza's memories, fragmented as they were, responded to it with a surge of emotion that Nyx had to consciously suppress. This body had attachments. They were a weakness... and a complication.