Flash Marriage To My Mysterious Immortal Husband
Language: en
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I entered a contractual marriage with Cyril Sweeney just to protect my antique restoration studio from local developers. I thought he was merely an eccentric, wealthy cargo pilot, but I soon realized I had married a monster. His skin was colder than ice, he could throw a grown man across a room effortlessly, and strangers in tailored suits dropped to their knees calling him "My Lord." But the most agonizing part was his violent rejection of me. Whenever I got close, or accidentally scraped my skin and bled, he would shove me away like I was a plague. His glacial eyes would turn pitch…
Available chapters
Chapter 1
Joseline Goodwin POV：
I stood in the cold rain at Twilight Mist Harbor Cemetery, staring calmly at my grandmother Eleanor Kensington’s gravestone. Just three hours earlier, I had witnessed my boyfriend of four years, Liam, rolling around with my own cousin Ruby in my apartment.
I hadn't cried. I hadn't thrown a tantrum. Instead, I had calmly recorded a five-second video of Liam scrambling under the sheets while Ruby shrieked in mock horror, sent the footage to our mutual friends, and walked out of the apartment I paid for.
But my uncle Arthur didn't care about betrayal--he cared about money. Within an hour, he ambushed me with his attorney, waving my late grandfather's will in my face. The terms were brutally clear: I had until my twenty-fourth birthday--which was exactly three days away--to enter a legal marriage. If I failed, the entire family trust fund and my beloved antique restoration studio would default directly into Uncle Arthur's greedy hands.
"Liam is marrying Ruby now, Joseline," Uncle Arthur had sneered, his eyes gleaming with triumphant greed. "You're all out of options. Sign the handover papers, or leave town with nothing."
Standing before the weathered headstone of my grandmother, Eleanor Kensington Goodwin, I felt an icy, resolute fire burn in my veins. I was a Goodwin; my blood carried the legacy of stubborn purifiers and independent restorers. I would rather marry a stray dog off the street than surrender my grandfather's life work to the parasites who had spent years trying to bleed me dry.
"I need a miracle, Grandma," I muttered aloud, wiping the freezing rainwater from my lashes. "Or just an idiot with a valid ID and a pulse."
"You shouldn't ask the dead for things that belong to the living."
The voice cut through the sound of rain like a silver blade.
I spun around, my instincts flaring. Less than ten feet away, emerging silently from the thick coastal fog, stood a man. He was tall--easily six-foot-three--draped in a tailored charcoal overcoat, holding a plain black umbrella. His skin was pale as polished alabaster, his jawline carved from dark granite, and his eyes--a deep, obsidian black--were locked onto mine with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
Yet, strangely, my pulse remained steady. The natural mental barrier I'd had since childhood, that quiet sanctuary in the back of my mind, absorbed the sheer, suffocating pressure rolling off him.
He was standing before another headstone, an ancient, unmarked slab also bearing the name Eleanor. His chest wasn't moving, and his gloved fingers gripped the umbrella handle so tightly that the leather strained. He looked less like a mourner and more like a predator restraining itself from a kill.
"You don't look like you're here to pay respects," I said, my voice steady, cutting through the damp chill. "You look like you're hunting."
The man's obsidian eyes flickered. A faint, razor-thin smile touched his lips, though it carried no warmth. "And you look like prey that doesn't know it should run."
"I don't run from strangers in broad daylight," I countered, stepping toward him. "I'm running out of time. There's a difference."
I took in his immaculate tailoring, the faint air of aristocratic detachment, and the sheer, raw power radiating from him. He was dangerous, unquestionably so, but he had an aura of authority that no petty thug could mimic.
"Let me ask you something, Sir," I said, catching the initials C.S. engraved on the silver clasp of his coat. "Do you happen to need a wife?"
The man froze. For a split second, the air between us dropped five degrees, a frost-like chill prickling the back of my neck.
"Excuse me?" his baritone rumbled, low and rough.
"A civil contract," I explained rapidly, laying out my cards with calculated calm. "No emotional entanglements. No shared finances. I need a marriage certificate stamped by the town hall before Friday to secure an inheritance from my manipulative relatives. In return, I can compensate you generously, or offer you legal cover if you have family breathing down your neck."
He stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, lingering on the hollow of my throat where my pulse beat rhythmically. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in what seemed like intense, suppressed hunger.
"I don't need your money, Miss Goodwin," he said quietly, his voice vibrating with something ancient and heavy.
"You know my name?" I narrowed my eyes.
"You said your grandmother is Eleanor Kensington. It wasn't hard to piece together," he replied without missing a beat, his expression reverting to a mask of polite indifference. "As it happens, my elders have been... excessively demanding regarding my bachelorhood. A quiet civil marriage suits my schedule perfectly."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled off my damp wool glove and extended my hand. "Joseline Goodwin. Deal?"
Cyril removed his leather glove. When his bare fingers wrapped around mine, a shock of pure, arctic cold shot up my arm. His skin was freezing--like raw marble submerged in a glacial river.
"Cyril Sweeney," he said softly, his thumb brushing the side of my palm. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
I stood motionless in the rain long after her footsteps faded into the mist.
I raised the hand that had touched hers, bringing my palm toward my lips. The scent lingering on my skin was intoxicating--pure, holy freesia, mixed with the electric, purifying warmth of ancient witch-blood.
My fangs lengthened, pressing painfully against the inside of my lower lip, and my vision tinted crimson.
Ten years.
Ten long years of searching every corner of the mortal realm since the night by the Ancient Frost-Fir when she had saved my dying soul with her blood, only for her memory to be shattered by the trauma. And now, she had walked right back into my grasp, demanding a contract.
"A civil marriage, my little witch?" I whispered into the howling wind, feeling the ancient covenant hum beneath my flesh. "You have no idea what you've just signed."
I stood in the cold rain at Twilight Mist Harbor Cemetery, staring calmly at my grandmother Eleanor Kensington’s gravestone. Just three hours earlier, I had witnessed my boyfriend of four years, Liam, rolling around with my own cousin Ruby in my apartment.
I hadn't cried. I hadn't thrown a tantrum. Instead, I had calmly recorded a five-second video of Liam scrambling under the sheets while Ruby shrieked in mock horror, sent the footage to our mutual friends, and walked out of the apartment I paid for.
But my uncle Arthur didn't care about betrayal--he cared about money. Within an hour, he ambushed me with his attorney, waving my late grandfather's will in my face. The terms were brutally clear: I had until my twenty-fourth birthday--which was exactly three days away--to enter a legal marriage. If I failed, the entire family trust fund and my beloved antique restoration studio would default directly into Uncle Arthur's greedy hands.
"Liam is marrying Ruby now, Joseline," Uncle Arthur had sneered, his eyes gleaming with triumphant greed. "You're all out of options. Sign the handover papers, or leave town with nothing."
Standing before the weathered headstone of my grandmother, Eleanor Kensington Goodwin, I felt an icy, resolute fire burn in my veins. I was a Goodwin; my blood carried the legacy of stubborn purifiers and independent restorers. I would rather marry a stray dog off the street than surrender my grandfather's life work to the parasites who had spent years trying to bleed me dry.
"I need a miracle, Grandma," I muttered aloud, wiping the freezing rainwater from my lashes. "Or just an idiot with a valid ID and a pulse."
"You shouldn't ask the dead for things that belong to the living."
The voice cut through the sound of rain like a silver blade.
I spun around, my instincts flaring. Less than ten feet away, emerging silently from the thick coastal fog, stood a man. He was tall--easily six-foot-three--draped in a tailored charcoal overcoat, holding a plain black umbrella. His skin was pale as polished alabaster, his jawline carved from dark granite, and his eyes--a deep, obsidian black--were locked onto mine with an intensity that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
Yet, strangely, my pulse remained steady. The natural mental barrier I'd had since childhood, that quiet sanctuary in the back of my mind, absorbed the sheer, suffocating pressure rolling off him.
He was standing before another headstone, an ancient, unmarked slab also bearing the name Eleanor. His chest wasn't moving, and his gloved fingers gripped the umbrella handle so tightly that the leather strained. He looked less like a mourner and more like a predator restraining itself from a kill.
"You don't look like you're here to pay respects," I said, my voice steady, cutting through the damp chill. "You look like you're hunting."
The man's obsidian eyes flickered. A faint, razor-thin smile touched his lips, though it carried no warmth. "And you look like prey that doesn't know it should run."
"I don't run from strangers in broad daylight," I countered, stepping toward him. "I'm running out of time. There's a difference."
I took in his immaculate tailoring, the faint air of aristocratic detachment, and the sheer, raw power radiating from him. He was dangerous, unquestionably so, but he had an aura of authority that no petty thug could mimic.
"Let me ask you something, Sir," I said, catching the initials C.S. engraved on the silver clasp of his coat. "Do you happen to need a wife?"
The man froze. For a split second, the air between us dropped five degrees, a frost-like chill prickling the back of my neck.
"Excuse me?" his baritone rumbled, low and rough.
"A civil contract," I explained rapidly, laying out my cards with calculated calm. "No emotional entanglements. No shared finances. I need a marriage certificate stamped by the town hall before Friday to secure an inheritance from my manipulative relatives. In return, I can compensate you generously, or offer you legal cover if you have family breathing down your neck."
He stared at me, his gaze sweeping over my face, lingering on the hollow of my throat where my pulse beat rhythmically. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in what seemed like intense, suppressed hunger.
"I don't need your money, Miss Goodwin," he said quietly, his voice vibrating with something ancient and heavy.
"You know my name?" I narrowed my eyes.
"You said your grandmother is Eleanor Kensington. It wasn't hard to piece together," he replied without missing a beat, his expression reverting to a mask of polite indifference. "As it happens, my elders have been... excessively demanding regarding my bachelorhood. A quiet civil marriage suits my schedule perfectly."
I didn't hesitate. I pulled off my damp wool glove and extended my hand. "Joseline Goodwin. Deal?"
Cyril removed his leather glove. When his bare fingers wrapped around mine, a shock of pure, arctic cold shot up my arm. His skin was freezing--like raw marble submerged in a glacial river.
"Cyril Sweeney," he said softly, his thumb brushing the side of my palm. "Tomorrow morning. Eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
I stood motionless in the rain long after her footsteps faded into the mist.
I raised the hand that had touched hers, bringing my palm toward my lips. The scent lingering on my skin was intoxicating--pure, holy freesia, mixed with the electric, purifying warmth of ancient witch-blood.
My fangs lengthened, pressing painfully against the inside of my lower lip, and my vision tinted crimson.
Ten years.
Ten long years of searching every corner of the mortal realm since the night by the Ancient Frost-Fir when she had saved my dying soul with her blood, only for her memory to be shattered by the trauma. And now, she had walked right back into my grasp, demanding a contract.
"A civil marriage, my little witch?" I whispered into the howling wind, feeling the ancient covenant hum beneath my flesh. "You have no idea what you've just signed."
Chapter 2
Joseline Goodwin POV:
At 7:50 AM, the morning fog clung to the steps of the Duskfog Harbor Town Hall like a shroud.
I half-expected Cyril Sweeney to be a ghost of my desperate imagination, a mirage conjured by stress and grief. But precisely at 7:58 AM, a sleek, utterly unassuming black SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Cyril stepped out.
He had traded his bespoke overcoat for a rugged navy-blue flight jacket, dark slacks, and heavy boots. On his left ring finger, a heavy antique silver signet ring set with a deep blue lapis stone caught the pale morning sun. Despite the casual mortal attire, his imposing height and lethal grace made him look like a wolf trying to pass as a golden retriever.
"Morning," I said, checking my watch. "Punctual."
"I value efficiency," Cyril replied smoothly, offering a slight nod. "Shall we?"
Inside the clerk's office, the paperwork was laid out. When the clerk asked for identification and proof of employment, Cyril placed his wallet on the counter. I glanced sideways and saw his standard FAA commercial pilot's license.
Cyril Sweeney. First Officer / Cargo Pilot. Polaris Air Cargo, a division of Astra Aeromarine.
"You're a cargo pilot?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as we waited for the clerk to notarize the forms.
"Night routes, mostly," Cyril said, his voice level. "International logistics and private freight. Long hours, erratic schedule, very little time for a social life."
A night-shift cargo pilot. It made total sense. That explained his unnatural pallor, his exhaustion, his icy hands, and why he was so willing to enter an unattached marriage—he was probably in the air five days a week.
"Perfect," I murmured. "That means we won't get in each other's way."
Cyril's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Indeed."
When he took the pen to sign the registry, I noticed his handwriting. It was exquisite—ornate, flowing copperplate script that looked like it belonged on a seventeenth-century treaty rather than a modern marriage license. As he handed the pen back to me, our fingers brushed again. His skin was still startlingly cold.
"Do you have poor circulation?" I asked bluntly, signing Joseline Goodwin-Sweeney without flinching. "Your hands feel like ice packs."
"Occupational hazard," Cyril answered without missing a beat. "High-altitude cockpit drafts and bad heating systems. You get used to it."
The clerk stamped the document with a heavy, satisfying thud.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney. You are legally wed."
I stared at the gold seal on the paper. Just like that, Uncle Arthur's trap was dismantled. I turned to Cyril, extending the document. "I'll make copies for my lawyer. As agreed, you have your freedom, and I have mine. If your family ever demands proof, call me and I'll play the devoted wife."
I turned to leave, but Cyril's long arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. The touch was firm, yet remarkably gentle, applying just enough pressure to stop me without causing pain.
"A moment, Joseline." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key attached to a leather fob, along with a slip of paper. "If you return to your old apartment, your uncle will have investigators watching you within the hour. If they see us living entirely separate lives, they can challenge the validity of this union in probate court on grounds of fraudulent intent."
My mind raced. He was right. Uncle Arthur was vile enough to hire private eyes to prove our marriage was a sham.
"This is the key to my place," Cyril continued, pressing the brass into my palm. "A glass cabin on the edge of the Frost-Fir woods north of town. It's secluded, private, and secure. I have a two-week rotation of night flights starting tonight, so the house is yours. Set up your restoration tools there. It will keep your uncle's dogs off your scent."
I looked down at the key. "You're offering me your house while you're away?"
"I'm offering my wife a defensible position," he said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Take it. Consider it part of the contract."
"Thank you, Cyril," I said sincerely, closing my fingers around the cold metal. "I owe you one."
"No," he whispered, stepping back into the morning mist. "You really don't."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
The moment the black SUV crossed the boundary line of the ancient forest, the illusion of the modern vehicle dissolved.
I drove past the cloaking wards, entering the subterranean driveway of the Astra Sanctorum. Colin Hayes, my chief seneschal, was waiting by the elevator doors, holding a crystal goblet filled with chilled donor blood.
I took the glass and drained it in a single swallow, letting the burning ache in my throat subside. For forty minutes in that tiny clerk's office, standing beside Joseline while her sweet, intoxicating pulse thrummed beneath her delicate porcelain skin, I had endured the agony of a thousand blades.
"My Lord," Colin bowed deeply. "The coven has received the marriage filing. The Elders are in an uproar."
"Let them scream," I wiped a stray drop of crimson from my lip with the back of my hand. "Send an immediate decree to every bloodline in the territory. Joseline Goodwin is now the High Lady of Astra. No vampire is to approach her. No thrall is to speak in her presence. And strip the glass cabin of all relics, blood reserves, and coven sigils before dusk."
"And if she notices the lack of a heartbeat during the day, Sire?"
I looked at the silver ring on my finger, watching the lapis stone absorb the ambient daylight. "She thinks I'm a freezing cargo pilot on night shift. Keep it that way."
At 7:50 AM, the morning fog clung to the steps of the Duskfog Harbor Town Hall like a shroud.
I half-expected Cyril Sweeney to be a ghost of my desperate imagination, a mirage conjured by stress and grief. But precisely at 7:58 AM, a sleek, utterly unassuming black SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Cyril stepped out.
He had traded his bespoke overcoat for a rugged navy-blue flight jacket, dark slacks, and heavy boots. On his left ring finger, a heavy antique silver signet ring set with a deep blue lapis stone caught the pale morning sun. Despite the casual mortal attire, his imposing height and lethal grace made him look like a wolf trying to pass as a golden retriever.
"Morning," I said, checking my watch. "Punctual."
"I value efficiency," Cyril replied smoothly, offering a slight nod. "Shall we?"
Inside the clerk's office, the paperwork was laid out. When the clerk asked for identification and proof of employment, Cyril placed his wallet on the counter. I glanced sideways and saw his standard FAA commercial pilot's license.
Cyril Sweeney. First Officer / Cargo Pilot. Polaris Air Cargo, a division of Astra Aeromarine.
"You're a cargo pilot?" I asked, raising an eyebrow as we waited for the clerk to notarize the forms.
"Night routes, mostly," Cyril said, his voice level. "International logistics and private freight. Long hours, erratic schedule, very little time for a social life."
A night-shift cargo pilot. It made total sense. That explained his unnatural pallor, his exhaustion, his icy hands, and why he was so willing to enter an unattached marriage—he was probably in the air five days a week.
"Perfect," I murmured. "That means we won't get in each other's way."
Cyril's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Indeed."
When he took the pen to sign the registry, I noticed his handwriting. It was exquisite—ornate, flowing copperplate script that looked like it belonged on a seventeenth-century treaty rather than a modern marriage license. As he handed the pen back to me, our fingers brushed again. His skin was still startlingly cold.
"Do you have poor circulation?" I asked bluntly, signing Joseline Goodwin-Sweeney without flinching. "Your hands feel like ice packs."
"Occupational hazard," Cyril answered without missing a beat. "High-altitude cockpit drafts and bad heating systems. You get used to it."
The clerk stamped the document with a heavy, satisfying thud.
"Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Sweeney. You are legally wed."
I stared at the gold seal on the paper. Just like that, Uncle Arthur's trap was dismantled. I turned to Cyril, extending the document. "I'll make copies for my lawyer. As agreed, you have your freedom, and I have mine. If your family ever demands proof, call me and I'll play the devoted wife."
I turned to leave, but Cyril's long arm shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist. The touch was firm, yet remarkably gentle, applying just enough pressure to stop me without causing pain.
"A moment, Joseline." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy brass key attached to a leather fob, along with a slip of paper. "If you return to your old apartment, your uncle will have investigators watching you within the hour. If they see us living entirely separate lives, they can challenge the validity of this union in probate court on grounds of fraudulent intent."
My mind raced. He was right. Uncle Arthur was vile enough to hire private eyes to prove our marriage was a sham.
"This is the key to my place," Cyril continued, pressing the brass into my palm. "A glass cabin on the edge of the Frost-Fir woods north of town. It's secluded, private, and secure. I have a two-week rotation of night flights starting tonight, so the house is yours. Set up your restoration tools there. It will keep your uncle's dogs off your scent."
I looked down at the key. "You're offering me your house while you're away?"
"I'm offering my wife a defensible position," he said, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "Take it. Consider it part of the contract."
"Thank you, Cyril," I said sincerely, closing my fingers around the cold metal. "I owe you one."
"No," he whispered, stepping back into the morning mist. "You really don't."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
The moment the black SUV crossed the boundary line of the ancient forest, the illusion of the modern vehicle dissolved.
I drove past the cloaking wards, entering the subterranean driveway of the Astra Sanctorum. Colin Hayes, my chief seneschal, was waiting by the elevator doors, holding a crystal goblet filled with chilled donor blood.
I took the glass and drained it in a single swallow, letting the burning ache in my throat subside. For forty minutes in that tiny clerk's office, standing beside Joseline while her sweet, intoxicating pulse thrummed beneath her delicate porcelain skin, I had endured the agony of a thousand blades.
"My Lord," Colin bowed deeply. "The coven has received the marriage filing. The Elders are in an uproar."
"Let them scream," I wiped a stray drop of crimson from my lip with the back of my hand. "Send an immediate decree to every bloodline in the territory. Joseline Goodwin is now the High Lady of Astra. No vampire is to approach her. No thrall is to speak in her presence. And strip the glass cabin of all relics, blood reserves, and coven sigils before dusk."
"And if she notices the lack of a heartbeat during the day, Sire?"
I looked at the silver ring on my finger, watching the lapis stone absorb the ambient daylight. "She thinks I'm a freezing cargo pilot on night shift. Keep it that way."
Chapter 3
Joseline Goodwin POV:
At 10:00 AM sharp, I walked into the mahogany-paneled conference room of Vance & Sterling Law Offices.
Uncle Arthur was already lounging at the head of the table, sipping an espresso with an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. Beside him sat Ruby, dressed in an obnoxious designer dress, and Liam, who was fidgeting nervously with his watch.
"Ah, the prodigal niece arrives," Uncle Arthur mocked, gesturing to his attorney. "Save us the drama, Joseline. Sign the transfer of the Goodwin Estate and the studio keys. Liam and Ruby's wedding is set for next month, and we need the trust assets cleared."
Liam had the audacity to look at me with pity. "Josie, be reasonable. You're a woman alone. How are you going to manage an antique studio without capital? Let Arthur handle it, and I'll make sure you get a monthly allowance."
I didn't utter a single word. I simply opened my leather binder, pulled out the official marriage certificate bearing the fresh, embossed seal of the state, and slapped it directly onto the table in front of Arthur's coffee cup.
The crack echoed like a gunshot.
Uncle Arthur picked up the paper, his smirk instantly curdling into a grotesque mask of shock. "What the hell is this?!"
"That is a legal certificate of marriage," I said smoothly, pulling out a chair and sitting down with legs crossed. "Registered this morning at eight o'clock. As of today, the condition of my grandfather's will is satisfied in full. The trust fund, the estate accounts, and the deed to the restoration studio are now under my sole, unassailable control."
"This is fraud!" Ruby shrieked, slamming her manicured hands on the table. "Who the hell is Cyril Sweeney?! You hired an escort! You paid some bum off the street!"
"Cyril Sweeney is an international cargo flight director," I replied calmly, my tone dripping with cold disdain. "He earns his own living and has a spotless record. Unlike your new fiancé, who has spent the last three years living off my credit cards."
Liam flushed scarlet. "Josie, that's uncalled for—"
"Shut up, Liam," I snapped, turning my gaze to Arthur. "Mr. Vance, I assume the handover documents are ready for my sole signature?"
The family attorney, clearly terrified of being sued for probate violation, hastily pushed the real documents toward me. "Yes, Mrs. Sweeney. Everything is in order. The assets are unlocked."
I signed every page with a steady hand, stood up, and looked at Ruby. Before she could open her venomous mouth again, I stepped forward and delivered a sharp, echoing slap across her cheek.
SMACK.
Ruby stumbled back with a gasp, clutching her face in horror.
"That's for sleeping in my bed," I said coldly. "If I ever catch either of you near my studio or my new home, I won't just sue you for trespassing—I'll ruin you. Now get out of my sight."
Leaving the three of them sputtering in humiliated fury, I met my best friend, Dara Ortega, downstairs. She practically tackled me into the seat of her vintage convertible.
"Tell me you didn't just marry a random stranger from a graveyard!" Dara yelled over the roar of the engine.
"He's a pilot, he's quiet, he travels constantly, and he gave me the keys to a house in the woods," I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. "It's the ultimate business arrangement, Dara. I saved my life's work, and I got a roommate who isn't even home."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
In the subterranean depths of the Astra Sanctorum, the air crackled with lethal static.
Thirteen vampire elders knelt before the obsidian dais, their heads bowed so low their foreheads brushed the cold stone floor. Evertt Sweeney, my younger cousin and a hotheaded vanguard, dared to look up.
"My Lord," Evertt stammered, his fangs chattering under my unchecked aura. "A mortal woman? A purifier's descendant? If the High Tribunal in Europe discovers you have bound yourself to a blood singer without coven sanction—"
With a flick of my wrist, an invisible shockwave struck Evertt's chest, sending him crashing into the stone pillar fifty feet away. He dropped to his knees, coughing up dark ichor.
"You speak as though you have a voice in my court, Evertt," I said, my voice echoing like rolling thunder through the cavernous chamber. "Joseline Goodwin is your Lady. Every resource of this coven—every shadow, every blade, every offshore billion in our trust—is now hers to command, whether she knows it or not."
I stepped down from the dais, my boots clicking rhythmically on the flagstones.
"She wishes to live as a mortal with an ordinary husband. Therefore, we are mortals. If anyone so much as bares a fang within five miles of her studio, or if any of you let slip our heritage, I will not merely execute you—I will expose your coffins to the dawn."
"Lord Cyril," Colin stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Her uncle, Arthur Goodwin, has already contacted a black-market investigator to dig into your flight records."
A cruel, razor-sharp grin spread across my face. "Make sure the investigator finds a flawless FAA record. And as for Arthur Goodwin... find every loan he owes to our shell corporations, and call them in by midnight."
At 10:00 AM sharp, I walked into the mahogany-paneled conference room of Vance & Sterling Law Offices.
Uncle Arthur was already lounging at the head of the table, sipping an espresso with an arrogant smirk plastered across his face. Beside him sat Ruby, dressed in an obnoxious designer dress, and Liam, who was fidgeting nervously with his watch.
"Ah, the prodigal niece arrives," Uncle Arthur mocked, gesturing to his attorney. "Save us the drama, Joseline. Sign the transfer of the Goodwin Estate and the studio keys. Liam and Ruby's wedding is set for next month, and we need the trust assets cleared."
Liam had the audacity to look at me with pity. "Josie, be reasonable. You're a woman alone. How are you going to manage an antique studio without capital? Let Arthur handle it, and I'll make sure you get a monthly allowance."
I didn't utter a single word. I simply opened my leather binder, pulled out the official marriage certificate bearing the fresh, embossed seal of the state, and slapped it directly onto the table in front of Arthur's coffee cup.
The crack echoed like a gunshot.
Uncle Arthur picked up the paper, his smirk instantly curdling into a grotesque mask of shock. "What the hell is this?!"
"That is a legal certificate of marriage," I said smoothly, pulling out a chair and sitting down with legs crossed. "Registered this morning at eight o'clock. As of today, the condition of my grandfather's will is satisfied in full. The trust fund, the estate accounts, and the deed to the restoration studio are now under my sole, unassailable control."
"This is fraud!" Ruby shrieked, slamming her manicured hands on the table. "Who the hell is Cyril Sweeney?! You hired an escort! You paid some bum off the street!"
"Cyril Sweeney is an international cargo flight director," I replied calmly, my tone dripping with cold disdain. "He earns his own living and has a spotless record. Unlike your new fiancé, who has spent the last three years living off my credit cards."
Liam flushed scarlet. "Josie, that's uncalled for—"
"Shut up, Liam," I snapped, turning my gaze to Arthur. "Mr. Vance, I assume the handover documents are ready for my sole signature?"
The family attorney, clearly terrified of being sued for probate violation, hastily pushed the real documents toward me. "Yes, Mrs. Sweeney. Everything is in order. The assets are unlocked."
I signed every page with a steady hand, stood up, and looked at Ruby. Before she could open her venomous mouth again, I stepped forward and delivered a sharp, echoing slap across her cheek.
SMACK.
Ruby stumbled back with a gasp, clutching her face in horror.
"That's for sleeping in my bed," I said coldly. "If I ever catch either of you near my studio or my new home, I won't just sue you for trespassing—I'll ruin you. Now get out of my sight."
Leaving the three of them sputtering in humiliated fury, I met my best friend, Dara Ortega, downstairs. She practically tackled me into the seat of her vintage convertible.
"Tell me you didn't just marry a random stranger from a graveyard!" Dara yelled over the roar of the engine.
"He's a pilot, he's quiet, he travels constantly, and he gave me the keys to a house in the woods," I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in years. "It's the ultimate business arrangement, Dara. I saved my life's work, and I got a roommate who isn't even home."
Cyril Sweeney POV:
In the subterranean depths of the Astra Sanctorum, the air crackled with lethal static.
Thirteen vampire elders knelt before the obsidian dais, their heads bowed so low their foreheads brushed the cold stone floor. Evertt Sweeney, my younger cousin and a hotheaded vanguard, dared to look up.
"My Lord," Evertt stammered, his fangs chattering under my unchecked aura. "A mortal woman? A purifier's descendant? If the High Tribunal in Europe discovers you have bound yourself to a blood singer without coven sanction—"
With a flick of my wrist, an invisible shockwave struck Evertt's chest, sending him crashing into the stone pillar fifty feet away. He dropped to his knees, coughing up dark ichor.
"You speak as though you have a voice in my court, Evertt," I said, my voice echoing like rolling thunder through the cavernous chamber. "Joseline Goodwin is your Lady. Every resource of this coven—every shadow, every blade, every offshore billion in our trust—is now hers to command, whether she knows it or not."
I stepped down from the dais, my boots clicking rhythmically on the flagstones.
"She wishes to live as a mortal with an ordinary husband. Therefore, we are mortals. If anyone so much as bares a fang within five miles of her studio, or if any of you let slip our heritage, I will not merely execute you—I will expose your coffins to the dawn."
"Lord Cyril," Colin stepped forward, bowing respectfully. "Her uncle, Arthur Goodwin, has already contacted a black-market investigator to dig into your flight records."
A cruel, razor-sharp grin spread across my face. "Make sure the investigator finds a flawless FAA record. And as for Arthur Goodwin... find every loan he owes to our shell corporations, and call them in by midnight."