That was sixteen days and thirty pounds ago. His personal physician had wanted him to undergo tests in a hospital, but Lilith refused. ‘Those hospitals will kill you, darling. I’m sure it’s just a bad case of food poisoning. I keep warning you about eating so much shellfish. I’ve sent the cooks home. From now on, I’ll personally be bringing you your meals, at least until you feel better.’

Lucien glances to the nightstand on his right. Prescription medicines, tissues, and a plastic beach bucket, in case he has to vomit again. A half-eaten bowl of chicken soup sits on a tray. The sight of it makes him queasy. Chicken soup … can’t she cook anything but chicken soup?

The billionaire rolls over, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. What’s all the money in the world if I’m too sick to enjoy it?

Chills fade into a hot flash, bringing with it the dreaded queasiness.

Lucien grabs the bucket and retches.

His pulse throbs in his head. His throat burns, his stomach convulsing in spasms. Flopping onto the floor, he holds his head in his hands, praying for the pain to stop.

God … what is it you want from me? Charity work? Another wing at some third-world hospital? Just tell me and end this misery.

Gathering his strength, he drags himself to his feet, the vertigo causing the bedroom to spin. Staggering forward, he heads to the bathroom—then stops, staring at his bare feet.

His toes are numb.

‘Oh, God … what’s happening to me? Lilith? Lilith!’

He stumbles out of the master bedroom and into the hallway.

‘Lilith?’

No wife. No servants. Where the hell is everyone?

He fumbles his way down the hall, the numbness spreading to his feet and ankles. He pauses at the open door to one of the guest suites, hearing voices. ‘Lilith? Lilith … you in here?’

Lucien staggers into the bedroom.

Stretched out across the king-size water bed, staring at her reflection in the ceiling mirror, is his young bride.

‘Lilith, help—’ Lucien falls to his knees, the sharp pain in his gut overwhelming. Numbness rises past his ankles to his hips. ‘Call Gill. Get me to a hospital, I think it’s my heart!’

‘No need to worry, sweetie, it’s not your heart.’

‘How … how do you know?’

‘Darling, it’s just the poison I’ve been feeding you.’

Lucien’s blood runs cold.

‘Now die like a good little rich boy, and don’t stain the carpet.’

Lucien collapses facefirst onto the plush beige rug, the numbness rising past his chest, the ringing in his ears insufficient to mute the cackle of laughter coming from his murderous wife’s voluptuous lips.

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