At my wedding reception, my new husband's little daughter tugged on my dress and asked, "Can I tell you Daddy's secret now that you're my mommy?" — but what she said next made my stomach drop.

When I returned to the house, the sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of crimson and violet.

I parked the car, took three deep, steadying breaths in the driveway, and checked my face in the rearview mirror. No tears. No tremors. I smoothed down my hair, opened the front door, and stepped inside.

Graham was standing in the foyer.

He was still in his suit trousers, but his jacket and tie were gone, the top two buttons of his dress shirt undone. He held a glass of bourbon in his right hand. The house was dead silent.

"Where were you, Clara?" he asked. His tone was soft, conversational, but his eyes were completely devoid of warmth.

My stomach seized, but I forced a faint, weary laugh. "I woke up feeling completely stifled, Graham. I drove over to the local pharmacy to get some stronger anti-nausea medication and ginger tea. Then I just sat by the lake for an hour to breathe."

Graham took a slow sip of his bourbon. "Funny. I checked the local pharmacy on Elm Street when I couldn't reach your phone. The pharmacist said he hadn't seen you."

A prickle of ice ran down my neck. He was tracking me. Or checking behind me.

"I didn't go to Elm Street," I replied without missing a beat, looking directly into his cold hazel eyes. "I went to the 24-hour Walgreens out on Route 9. Elm was out of stock on the brand I use. And my phone died—the charger was in the suitcase in the trunk."

Graham stared at me. The silence in the foyer was suffocating, punctuated only by the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. I could see the gears turning behind his eyes—calculating probabilities, assessing whether his sweet, docile bride was capable of lying to him.

Finally, the tension snapped. His face relaxed into that familiar, charming smile.

"You should have called me from their landline, darling. I was worried sick." He crossed the room, wrapping his free arm around my waist, pulling me against his chest.

I leaned into him, resting my cheek against his lapel, suppressing the violent urge to gag. Beneath his crisp shirt, his heart was beating slow and steady—the rhythm of a cold-blooded reptile.

"Where's Millie?" I asked softly.

"Mrs. Gable put her to bed an hour ago," Graham murmured, his lips brushing my ear. "She was asking for you. She said she told you a story at the reception."

My breath caught in my throat. I kept my voice entirely steady. "Did she? She told me she wanted chocolate cake for breakfast every day now that I'm her mommy."

Graham chuckled, the sound vibrating against my cheek. "She certainly loves her sugar. Come on. Let's get you some dinner."

As he turned toward the kitchen, my eyes caught his phone sitting on the console table. A text notification lit up the lock screen:

*Dr. Mercer (Oakhaven): Visitor logged under Vance name at 15:10. Confirming authorization.*