Chapter 3 - Rules for Becoming Mrs. Lancaster
I didn't sleep.
At three in the morning, I was sitting beside the bedroom window wearing borrowed pajamas while Lancaster security vehicles moved across the property below.
At three fifteen, somebody knocked.
I grabbed the nearest weapon.
Unfortunately, the nearest weapon was a decorative lamp.
“Who is it?”
“Richard.”
I put down the lamp.
Then picked it back up.
“Come in.”
Richard entered, noticed the lamp in my hands, and looked at me.
“I feel safer already.”
“You're the alleged mafia boss. I thought you'd appreciate initiative.”
He closed the door.
“I've doubled security.”
“That's comforting, except the person who leaked my arrival may already be inside.”
“We don't know that.”
“Who knew about me?”
“My driver. Two security men. My attorney.”
“Maria?”
“No.”
“Your sons?”
“No.”
“Anyone at the café?”
“I made the decision after you were fired.”
I stared.
“You decided to marry me in less than four hours?”
“I'd considered asking you to work with the boys before today.”
“That is somehow weirder.”
He accepted that.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“You leave if you want.”
The immediate answer surprised me.
“No argument?”
“No.”
“No reminder about the money?”
“No.”
“That's very reasonable for a terrifying criminal.”
His expression cooled.
“You shouldn't believe everything people say about me.”
“Which part isn't true?”
Richard looked toward the window.
“That discussion can wait.”
Meaning enough of it was true.
I folded my arms.
“If I leave, does whoever wrote that message stop caring about me?”
“No.”
“Then leaving doesn't make me safer.”
“No.”
“And you still need someone for the boys.”
“Yes.”
“Then I'm staying.”
Richard looked directly at me.
“You don't owe me anything.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
I thought of Alex holding his mother's picture.
Max laughing at the pillow.
The way Richard had held both sons like they were the only thing on earth he feared losing.
“Because your children are already involved in whatever this is.”
Something unreadable moved through his eyes.
“And because,” I continued, “I'm extremely stubborn.”
“That I've noticed.”
At eight the next morning, a lawyer arrived.
Her name was Evelyn Hart.
Fifty-something.
Silver hair.
Beautiful suit.
The expression of a woman who had seen every possible form of human foolishness and billed by the hour for surviving it.
She placed a thick contract on the library table.
“You're entering a legally valid marriage,” she explained, “with a private marital agreement governing finances, property, confidentiality, and dissolution.”
I flipped through pages.
“Do fake wives usually get this much paperwork?”
Evelyn didn't blink.
“Fake wives don't exist under New York law.”
I looked at Richard.
“That's encouraging.”
The financial section was astonishing.
Monthly compensation.
A trust established in my name.
A separate account.
Guaranteed housing for two years after dissolution.
Health insurance.
Education funds if I wanted to return to school.
I looked up.
“This is too much.”
Richard was reading another document.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I'm not being purchased.”
His eyes lifted.
“Then don't treat it as payment.”
“What should I treat it as?”
“Security.”
“I don't need this much.”
“You may when you're associated with me.”
There was a warning inside that sentence.
Evelyn slid another page toward me.
“This provision gives you unrestricted right to terminate the arrangement.”
I read it twice.
“You added this?”
Richard nodded.
I signed.
By noon, I had legally agreed to marry one of the most feared men in New York.
The ceremony would happen quietly in forty-eight hours.
Publicly, the story would be that Richard and I had been seeing each other privately.
Privately, I had rules.
I wrote them on paper.
Richard stared at the list.
“Number six says pancakes on Sundays.”
“Yes.”
“What does that have to do with our arrangement?”
“Children like traditions.”
“We already have traditions.”
“Name one.”
He paused.
“Sunday dinner.”
“Where?”
“Dining room.”
“With?”
“The boys.”
“Who cooks?”
“Staff.”
“What do you do?”
“Eat.”
“That isn't a tradition. That's nutrition.”
He looked offended.
“Pancakes.”
“Yes.”
“I don't cook.”
“You're learning.”
“No.”
“Then I'll teach you.”
“No.”
“Richard.”
He closed his eyes.
“Fine.”
Alex appeared in the doorway.
“Dad doesn't know how to cook anything.”
Richard looked betrayed.
I grinned.
“Excellent. You're helping.”
Alex's expression remained cautious.
“I'm not helping you.”
“Then you can help your father.”
Max ran in.
“I want chocolate chips.”
And just like that, Sunday pancakes became law.
The next two days moved unbelievably fast.
A stylist arrived.
Then another.
Clothes appeared in my closet.
A jeweler brought three engagement rings.
I refused all three because each looked expensive enough to finance a small nation.
Richard finally produced a simple diamond ring that had belonged to his grandmother.
I stared at it.
“This matters to you.”
“Yes.”
“Then why give it to me?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because if we're going to lie publicly, I don't want every part of it to be false.”
I didn't know what to say.
The wedding happened Friday morning in a private chapel on the property.
Evelyn attended.
Maria.
The boys.
Four security men.
No flowers except a small arrangement Max had apparently demanded.
I wore an ivory dress.
Richard wore black.
Alex refused formal clothes and appeared in sneakers.
I respected that.
When the officiant asked if Richard took me as his wife, he looked directly into my eyes.
“I do.”
Two words.
Still, my pulse changed.
When it was my turn, I reminded myself of the contract.
The money.
The rules.
One year.
“I do.”
Richard slid the ring onto my finger.
For one terrifying moment, nothing about it felt fake.
Afterward, photographers waited outside the gates.
The announcement spread faster than I imagined possible.
By dinner, my phone contained messages from people who hadn't spoken to me in years.
Congratulations.
Questions.
Disbelief.
One message from my former manager simply said:
WHAT THE HELL?
I laughed so hard Max asked what happened.
“Adult stupidity.”
He accepted that explanation.
The first public event came three days later.
A charity gala in Manhattan.
My stomach twisted while a stylist pinned my hair.
Richard appeared at my bedroom door wearing a tuxedo.
He stopped.
I looked down.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're staring.”
“You look…”
He stopped.
I waited.
“Appropriate.”
I stared.
“That's the best you can do?”
“I was trying not to violate the rules.”
“Compliments aren't touching.”
“Beautiful.”
The word landed differently than it should have.
I looked away.
“Thank you.”
At the gala, cameras flashed nonstop.
Richard placed one hand lightly against my lower back.
I stiffened.
“Necessary,” he murmured.
“Debatable.”
“Thirty photographers disagree.”
We moved through the ballroom.
People greeted Richard with a mixture of respect and fear.
Then I noticed something else.
They were studying me.
Who was she?
Where did she come from?
How did a waitress become Mrs. Richard Lancaster?
I smiled until my cheeks hurt.
Then an older man approached.
Vincent Caruso.
I recognized the name.
Even I had heard of him.
Another major figure in New York's underground world.
He took my hand.
“Mrs. Lancaster.”
His smile made my skin crawl.
“Quite a surprise.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
His eyes remained on mine.
“Richard always was unpredictable.”
Richard stepped closer.
“Vincent.”
“Relax. I'm congratulating your bride.”
Vincent leaned slightly toward me.
“I knew Elena.”
Richard went still.
I noticed immediately.
“She was lovely.”
“Thank you,” Richard said coldly.
Vincent ignored him.
“Such a tragedy.”
“What happened to her?” I asked before I could stop myself.
Silence.
Richard's hand tightened slightly at my back.
Vincent's smile changed.
“You don't know?”
“Vincent.”
Richard's voice was dangerous now.
Vincent lifted both hands.
“My mistake.”
He walked away.
I turned toward Richard.
“You told me she died.”
“She did.”
“You didn't tell me how.”
“Not here.”
We left early.
The car ride home was silent.
When we arrived, Richard went directly toward his office.
I followed.
“You can't keep doing that.”
He turned.
“Doing what?”
“Shutting down every time Elena comes up.”
“My wife's death is not entertainment.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“Then leave it alone.”
Something in his tone triggered my temper.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“If I'm expected to live in this house, raise her children, wear your grandmother's ring, and smile beside you while dangerous men mention her name like a threat, I deserve to know what happened.”
Richard's face went still.
Then he walked toward the window.
For nearly a minute, he said nothing.
“Elena died in a car accident.”
I waited.
“Three years ago.”
“Was it an accident?”
Richard didn't move.
That was my answer.
“Richard.”
“The brakes failed.”
My skin prickled.
“Someone tampered with them?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“We never proved it.”
“And the boys?”
“Were supposed to be in the car.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“They were ill that morning. Elena left them home.”
Now I understood.
The security.
The fortress.
The way Alex carried grief like responsibility.
The arrangement wasn't only about appearances.
Richard was terrified.
“Someone tried to kill your entire family.”
“Yes.”
“And now someone already knows about me.”
“Yes.”
Before I could respond, an alarm sounded somewhere in the house.
Not loud.
Three sharp electronic tones.
Richard moved instantly.
He opened the office door.
A security man was already running toward us.
“Sir.”
“What happened?”
“West perimeter.”
Richard's entire demeanor changed.
“What?”
“Camera seventeen went offline.”
“How long?”
“Forty-two seconds.”
“And?”
The guard hesitated.
“We found something.”
We followed him downstairs.
Near the back entrance, another security officer held a small object sealed in a clear evidence bag.
A photograph.
Old.
Slightly burned at the edges.
Richard saw it and stopped.
It showed Elena.
Standing beside the same bus shelter where Richard had found me.
On the back, written in black ink, were six words.
YOU CHOSE THE WRONG WOMAN AGAIN.
I looked at Richard.
His face had lost all color.
Because whoever was threatening us wasn't simply watching the house.
They knew where Elena had been.
May you like
They knew where Richard found me.
And somehow, three years after his first wife's death, somebody wanted him to believe history was about to repeat itself.
